well, my dear sir, to say that boys contract habits of expecting tips from their parents’ friends, that they become avaricious, and so forth.  Avaricious! fudge!  Boys contract habits of tart and toffee eating, which they do not carry into after life.  On the contrary, I wish I did like ’em.  What raptures of pleasure one could have now for five shillings, if one could but pick it off the pastry-cook’s tray!  No.  If you have any little friends at school, out with your half-crowns, my friend, and impart to those little ones the little fleeting joys of their age.

Well, then.  At the beginning of August, 1823, Bartlemy-tide holidays came, and I was to go to my parents, who were at Tunbridge Wells.  My place in the coach was taken by my tutor’s servants—­“Bolt-in-Tun,” Fleet Street, seven o’clock in the morning, was the word.  My Tutor, the Rev. Edward P——­, to whom I hereby present my best compliments, had a parting interview with me:  gave me my little account for my governor:  the remaining part of the coach-hire; five shillings for my own expenses; and some five-and-twenty shillings on an old account which had been overpaid, and was to be restored to my family.

Away I ran and paid Hawker his three-and-six.  Ouf! what a weight it was off my mind! (He was a Norfolk boy, and used to go home from Mrs. Nelson’s “Bell Inn,” Aldgate—­but that is not to the point.) The next morning, of course, we were an hour before the time.  I and another boy shared a hackney-coach; two-and-six:  porter for putting luggage on coach, threepence.  I had no more money of my own left.  Rasherwell, my companion, went into the “Bolt-in-Tun” coffee-room, and had a good breakfast.  I couldn’t; because, though I had five-and-twenty shillings of my parents’ money, I had none of my own, you see.

I certainly intended to go without breakfast, and still remember how strongly I had that resolution in my mind.  But there was that hour to wait.  A beautiful August morning—­I am very hungry.  There is Rasherwell “tucking” away in the coffee-room.  I pace the street, as sadly almost as if I had been coming to school, not going thence.  I turn into a court by mere chance—­I vow it was by mere chance—­and there I see a coffee-shop with a placard in the window, Coffee, Twopence.  Round of buttered toast, Twopence.  And here am I, hungry, penniless, with five-and-twenty shillings of my parents’ money in my pocket.

What would you have done?  You see I had had my money, and spent it in that pencil-case affair.  The five-and-twenty shillings were a trust—­by me to be handed over.

But then would my parents wish their only child to be actually without breakfast?  Having this money, and being so hungry, so very hungry, mightn’t I take ever so little?  Mightn’t I at home eat as much as I chose?

Well, I went into the coffee-shop, and spent fourpence.  I remember the taste of the coffee and toast to this day—­a peculiar, muddy, not-sweet-enough, most fragrant coffee—­a rich, rancid, yet not-buttered-enough delicious toast.  The waiter had nothing.  At any rate, fourpence I know was the sum I spent.  And the hunger appeased, I got on the coach a guilty being.