Cuff's fight with Dobbin, and the unexpected issue of that contest,will long be remembered by every man who was educated at Dr.Swishtail's famous school. The latter Youth (who used to be calledHeigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin, and by many other names indicative ofpuerile contempt) was the quietest, the clumsiest, and, as it seemed,the dullest of all Dr. Swishtail's young gentlemen. His parent was agrocer in the city: and it was bruited abroad that he was admitted intoDr. Swishtail's academy upon what are called "mutual principles"--thatis to say, the expenses of his board and schooling were defrayed by hisfather in goods, not money; and he stood there--most at the bottom ofthe school--in his scraggy corduroys and jacket, through the seams ofwhich his great big bones were bursting--as the representative of somany pounds of tea, candles, sugar, mottled-soap, plums (of which avery mild proportion was supplied for the puddings of theestablishment), and other commodities. A dreadful day it was for youngDobbin when one of the youngsters of the school, having run into thetown upon a poaching excursion for hardbake and polonies, espied thecart of Dobbin & Rudge, Grocers and Oilmen, Thames Street, London, atthe Doctor's door, discharging a cargo of the wares in which the firmdealt.

Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were frightful, andmerciless against him. "Hullo, Dobbin," one wag would say, "here'sgood news in the paper. Sugars is ris', my boy." Another would set asum--"If a pound of mutton-candles cost sevenpence-halfpenny, how muchmust Dobbin cost?" and a roar would follow from all the circle of youngknaves, usher and all, who rightly considered that the selling of goodsby retail is a shameful and infamous practice, meriting the contemptand scorn of all real gentlemen.

"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said in private to thelittle boy who had brought down the storm upon him. At which thelatter replied haughtily, "My father's a gentleman, and keeps hiscarriage"; and Mr. William Dobbin retreated to a remote outhouse in theplayground, where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sadness andwoe. Who amongst us is there that does not recollect similar hours ofbitter, bitter childish grief? Who feels injustice; who shrinks beforea slight; who has a sense of wrong so acute, and so glowing a gratitudefor kindness, as a generous boy? and how many of those gentle souls doyou degrade, estrange, torture, for the sake of a little loosearithmetic, and miserable dog-latin?

Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the rudiments of theabove language, as they are propounded in that wonderful book the EtonLatin Grammar, was compelled to remain among the very last of DoctorSwishtail's scholars, and was "taken down" continually by littlefellows with pink faces and pinafores when he marched up with the lowerform, a giant amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied look, hisdog's-eared primer, and his tight corduroys. High and low, all madefun of him. They sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were. Theycut his bed-strings. They upset buckets and benches, so that he mightbreak his shins over them, which he never failed to do. They sent himparcels, which, when opened, were found to contain the paternal soapand candles. There was no little fellow but had his jeer and joke atDobbin; and he bore everything quite patiently, and was entirely dumband miserable.

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the SwishtailSeminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town-boys. Ponies usedto come for him to ride home on Saturdays. He had his top-boots in hisroom, in which he used to hunt in the holidays. He had a goldrepeater: and took snuff like the Doctor. He had been to the Opera,and knew the merits of the principal actors, preferring Mr. Kean to Mr.Kemble. He could knock you off forty Latin verses in an hour. Hecould make French poetry. What else didn't he know, or couldn't he do?They said even the Doctor himself was afraid of him.

Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects, andbullied them, with splendid superiority. This one blacked his shoes:that toasted his bread, others would fag out, and give him balls atcricket during whole summer afternoons. "Figs" was the fellow whom hedespised most, and with whom, though always abusing him, and sneeringat him, he scarcely ever condescended to hold personal communication.

One day in private, the two young gentlemen had had a difference. Figs,alone in the schoolroom, was blundering over a home letter; when Cuff,entering, bade him go upon some message, of which tarts were probablythe subject.

"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter."

"You CAN'T?" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (in which manywords were scratched out, many were mis-spelt, on which had been spentI don't know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for the poorfellow was writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she wasa grocer's wife, and lived in a back parlour in Thames Street). "YouCAN'T?" says Mr. Cuff: "I should like to know why, pray? Can't youwrite to old Mother Figs to-morrow?"

"Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench very nervous.

"Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school.

"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman readth letterth."

"Well, NOW will you go?" says the other.

"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll THMASH you," roars out Dobbin,springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked, that Mr. Cuffpaused, turned down his coat sleeves again, put his hands into hispockets, and walked away with a sneer. But he never meddled personallywith the grocer's boy after that; though we must do him the justice tosay he always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt behind his back.

Some time after this interview, it happened that Mr. Cuff, on asunshiny afternoon, was in the neighbourhood of poor William Dobbin,who was lying under a tree in the playground, spelling over a favouritecopy of the Arabian Nights which he had apart from the rest of theschool, who were pursuing their various sports--quite lonely, andalmost happy. If people would but leave children to themselves; ifteachers would cease to bully them; if parents would not insist upondirecting their thoughts, and dominating their feelings--those feelingsand thoughts which are a mystery to all (for how much do you and I knowof each other, of our children, of our fathers, of our neighbour, andhow far more beautiful and sacred are the thoughts of the poor lad orgirl whom you govern likely to be, than those of the dull andworld-corrupted person who rules him?)--if, I say, parents and masterswould leave their children alone a little more, small harm wouldaccrue, although a less quantity of as in praesenti might be acquired.

Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, and was awaywith Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley of Diamonds, or with Prince Ahmedand the Fairy Peribanou in that delightful cavern where the Princefound her, and whither we should all like to make a tour; when shrillcries, as of a little fellow weeping, woke up his pleasant reverie; andlooking up, he saw Cuff before him, belabouring a little boy.

It was the lad who had peached upon him about the grocer's cart; but hebore little malice, not at least towards the young and small. "How dareyou, sir, break the bottle?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging ayellow cricket-stump over him.

The boy had been instructed to get over the playground wall (at aselected spot where the broken glass had been removed from the top, andniches made convenient in the brick); to run a quarter of a mile; topurchase a pint of rum-shrub on credit; to brave all the Doctor'soutlying spies, and to clamber back into the playground again; duringthe performance of which feat, his foot had slipt, and the bottle wasbroken, and the shrub had been spilt, and his pantaloons had beendamaged, and he appeared before his employer a perfectly guilty andtrembling, though harmless, wretch.

"How dare you, sir, break it?" says Cuff; "you blundering little thief.You drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle.Hold out your hand, sir."

Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the child's hand. Amoan followed. Dobbin looked up. The Fairy Peribanou had fled into theinmost cavern with Prince Ahmed: the Roc had whisked away Sindbad theSailor out of the Valley of Diamonds out of sight, far into the clouds:and there was everyday life before honest William; and a big boybeating a little one without cause.

"Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little schoolfellow,whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin quivered, and gatheredhimself up in his narrow old clothes.

"Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff, and down came the wicketagain on the child's hand.--Don't be horrified, ladies, every boy at apublic school has done it. Your children will so do and be done by, inall probability. Down came the wicket again; and Dobbin started up.

I can't tell what his motive was. Torture in a public school is asmuch licensed as the knout in Russia. It would be ungentlemanlike (ina manner) to resist it. Perhaps Dobbin's foolish soul revolted againstthat exercise of tyranny; or perhaps he had a hankering feeling ofrevenge in his mind, and longed to measure himself against thatsplendid bully and tyrant, who had all the glory, pride, pomp,circumstance, banners flying, drums beating, guards saluting, in theplace. Whatever may have been his incentive, however, up he sprang,and screamed out, "Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child any more; orI'll--"

"Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at this interruption. "Holdout your hand, you little beast."

"I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your life," Dobbinsaid, in reply to the first part of Cuff's sentence; and littleOsborne, gasping and in tears, looked up with wonder and incredulity atseeing this amazing champion put up suddenly to defend him: whileCuff's astonishment was scarcely less. Fancy our late monarch GeorgeIII when he heard of the revolt of the North American colonies: fancybrazen Goliath when little David stepped forward and claimed a meeting;and you have the feelings of Mr. Reginald Cuff when this rencontre wasproposed to him.

"After school," says he, of course; after a pause and a look, as muchas to say, "Make your will, and communicate your last wishes to yourfriends between this time and that."

"As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle holder, Osborne."

"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you see his papa kepta carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his champion.

Yes, when the hour of battle came, he was almost ashamed to say, "Goit, Figs"; and not a single other boy in the place uttered that cry forthe first two or three rounds of this famous combat; at thecommencement of which the scientific Cuff, with a contemptuous smile onhis face, and as light and as gay as if he was at a ball, planted hisblows upon his adversary, and floored that unlucky champion three timesrunning. At each fall there was a cheer; and everybody was anxious tohave the honour of offering the conqueror a knee.

"What a licking I shall get when it's over," young Osborne thought,picking up his man. "You'd best give in," he said to Dobbin; "it'sonly a thrashing, Figs, and you know I'm used to it." But Figs, allwhose limbs were in a quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage,put his little bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time.

As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows that were aimedat himself, and Cuff had begun the attack on the three precedingoccasions, without ever allowing his enemy to strike, Figs nowdetermined that he would commence the engagement by a charge on his ownpart; and accordingly, being a left-handed man, brought that arm intoaction, and hit out a couple of times with all his might--once at Mr.Cuff's left eye, and once on his beautiful Roman nose.

Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the assembly. "Wellhit, by Jove," says little Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur,clapping his man on the back. "Give it him with the left, Figs my boy."

Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the combat. Cuffwent down every time. At the sixth round, there were almost as manyfellows shouting out, "Go it, Figs," as there were youths exclaiming,"Go it, Cuff." At the twelfth round the latter champion was all abroad,as the saying is, and had lost all presence of mind and power of attackor defence. Figs, on the contrary, was as calm as a quaker. His facebeing quite pale, his eyes shining open, and a great cut on hisunderlip bleeding profusely, gave this young fellow a fierce andghastly air, which perhaps struck terror into many spectators.Nevertheless, his intrepid adversary prepared to close for thethirteenth time.

If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell's Life, I should like todescribe this combat properly. It was the last charge of theGuard--(that is, it would have been, only Waterloo had not yet takenplace)--it was Ney's column breasting the hill of La Haye Sainte,bristling with ten thousand bayonets, and crowned with twentyeagles--it was the shout of the beef-eating British, as leaping downthe hill they rushed to hug the enemy in the savage arms of battle--inother words, Cuff coming up full of pluck, but quite reeling andgroggy, the Fig-merchant put in his left as usual on his adversary'snose, and sent him down for the last time.

"I think that will do for him," Figs said, as his opponent dropped asneatly on the green as I have seen Jack Spot's ball plump into thepocket at billiards; and the fact is, when time was called, Mr.Reginald Cuff was not able, or did not choose, to stand up again.

And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would have madeyou think he had been their darling champion through the whole battle;and as absolutely brought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious toknow the cause of the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs violently, ofcourse; but Cuff, who had come to himself by this time, and was washinghis wounds, stood up and said, "It's my fault, sir--not Figs'--notDobbin's. I was bullying a little boy; and he served me right." Bywhich magnanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror a whipping,but got back all his ascendancy over the boys which his defeat hadnearly cost him.

Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of the transaction.

Sugarcane House, Richmond, March, 18--

DEAR MAMA,--I hope you are quite well. I should be much obliged to youto send me a cake and five shillings. There has been a fight herebetween Cuff & Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the School.They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff is now OnlySecond Cock. The fight was about me. Cuff was licking me for breakinga bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call him Figs becausehis father is a Grocer--Figs & Rudge, Thames St., City--I think as hefought for me you ought to buy your Tea & Sugar at his father's. Cuffgoes home every Saturday, but can't this, because he has 2 Black Eyes.He has a white Pony to come and fetch him, and a groom in livery on abay mare. I wish my Papa would let me have a Pony, and I am

Your dutiful Son, GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE

P.S.--Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her out a Coach incardboard. Please not a seed-cake, but a plum-cake.

In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose prodigiously inthe estimation of all his schoolfellows, and the name of Figs, whichhad been a byword of reproach, became as respectable and popular anickname as any other in use in the school. "After all, it's not hisfault that his father's a grocer," George Osborne said, who, though alittle chap, had a very high popularity among the Swishtail youth; andhis opinion was received with great applause. It was voted low to sneerat Dobbin about this accident of birth. "Old Figs" grew to be a name ofkindness and endearment; and the sneak of an usher jeered at him nolonger.

And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances. He madewonderful advances in scholastic learning. The superb Cuff himself, atwhose condescension Dobbin could only blush and wonder, helped him onwith his Latin verses; "coached" him in play-hours: carried himtriumphantly out of the little-boy class into the middle-sized form;and even there got a fair place for him. It was discovered, thatalthough dull at classical learning, at mathematics he was uncommonlyquick. To the contentment of all he passed third in algebra, and got aFrench prize-book at the public Midsummer examination. You should haveseen his mother's face when Telemaque (that delicious romance) waspresented to him by the Doctor in the face of the whole school and theparents and company, with an inscription to Gulielmo Dobbin. All theboys clapped hands in token of applause and sympathy. His blushes, hisstumbles, his awkwardness, and the number of feet which he crushed ashe went back to his place, who shall describe or calculate? Old Dobbin,his father, who now respected him for the first time, gave him twoguineas publicly; most of which he spent in a general tuck-out for theschool: and he came back in a tail-coat after the holidays.

Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose that this happychange in all his circumstances arose from his own generous and manlydisposition: he chose, from some perverseness, to attribute his goodfortune to the sole agency and benevolence of little George Osborne, towhom henceforth he vowed such a love and affection as is only felt bychildren--such an affection, as we read in the charming fairy-book,uncouth Orson had for splendid young Valentine his conqueror. He flunghimself down at little Osborne's feet, and loved him. Even before theywere acquainted, he had admired Osborne in secret. Now he was hisvalet, his dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne to be thepossessor of every perfection, to be the handsomest, the bravest, themost active, the cleverest, the most generous of created boys. Heshared his money with him: bought him uncountable presents of knives,pencil-cases, gold seals, toffee, Little Warblers, and romantic books,with large coloured pictures of knights and robbers, in many of whichlatter you might read inscriptions to George Sedley Osborne, Esquire,from his attached friend William Dobbin--the which tokens of homageGeorge received very graciously, as became his superior merit.

So that Lieutenant Osborne, when coming to Russell Square on the day ofthe Vauxhall party, said to the ladies, "Mrs. Sedley, Ma'am, I hope youhave room; I've asked Dobbin of ours to come and dine here, and go withus to Vauxhall. He's almost as modest as Jos."

"Modesty! pooh," said the stout gentleman, casting a vainqueur look atMiss Sharp.

"He is--but you are incomparably more graceful, Sedley," Osborne added,laughing. "I met him at the Bedford, when I went to look for you; andI told him that Miss Amelia was come home, and that we were all bent ongoing out for a night's pleasuring; and that Mrs. Sedley had forgivenhis breaking the punch-bowl at the child's party. Don't you rememberthe catastrophe, Ma'am, seven years ago?"

"Over Mrs. Flamingo's crimson silk gown," said good-natured Mrs.Sedley. "What a gawky it was! And his sisters are not much moregraceful. Lady Dobbin was at Highbury last night with three of them.Such figures! my dears."

"The Alderman's very rich, isn't he?" Osborne said archly. "Don't youthink one of the daughters would be a good spec for me, Ma'am?"

"You foolish creature! Who would take you, I should like to know, withyour yellow face?"

"Mine a yellow face? Stop till you see Dobbin. Why, he had the yellowfever three times; twice at Nassau, and once at St. Kitts."

"Well, well; yours is quite yellow enough for us. Isn't it, Emmy?"Mrs. Sedley said: at which speech Miss Amelia only made a smile and ablush; and looking at Mr. George Osborne's pale interestingcountenance, and those beautiful black, curling, shining whiskers,which the young gentleman himself regarded with no ordinarycomplacency, she thought in her little heart that in His Majesty'sarmy, or in the wide world, there never was such a face or such a hero."I don't care about Captain Dobbin's complexion," she said, "or abouthis awkwardness. I shall always like him, I know," her little reasonbeing, that he was the friend and champion of George.

"There's not a finer fellow in the service," Osborne said, "nor abetter officer, though he is not an Adonis, certainly." And he lookedtowards the glass himself with much naivete; and in so doing, caughtMiss Sharp's eye fixed keenly upon him, at which he blushed a little,and Rebecca thought in her heart, "Ah, mon beau Monsieur! I think Ihave YOUR gauge"--the little artful minx!

That evening, when Amelia came tripping into the drawing-room in awhite muslin frock, prepared for conquest at Vauxhall, singing like alark, and as fresh as a rose--a very tall ungainly gentleman, withlarge hands and feet, and large ears, set off by a closely cropped headof black hair, and in the hideous military frogged coat and cocked hatof those times, advanced to meet her, and made her one of the clumsiestbows that was ever performed by a mortal.

This was no other than Captain William Dobbin, of His Majesty'sRegiment of Foot, returned from yellow fever, in the West Indies, towhich the fortune of the service had ordered his regiment, whilst somany of his gallant comrades were reaping glory in the Peninsula.

He had arrived with a knock so very timid and quiet that it wasinaudible to the ladies upstairs: otherwise, you may be sure MissAmelia would never have been so bold as to come singing into the room.As it was, the sweet fresh little voice went right into the Captain'sheart, and nestled there. When she held out her hand for him to shake,before he enveloped it in his own, he paused, and thought--"Well, is itpossible--are you the little maid I remember in the pink frock, such ashort time ago--the night I upset the punch-bowl, just after I wasgazetted? Are you the little girl that George Osborne said should marryhim? What a blooming young creature you seem, and what a prize therogue has got!" All this he thought, before he took Amelia's hand intohis own, and as he let his cocked hat fall.

His history since he left school, until the very moment when we havethe pleasure of meeting him again, although not fully narrated, hasyet, I think, been indicated sufficiently for an ingenious reader bythe conversation in the last page. Dobbin, the despised grocer, wasAlderman Dobbin--Alderman Dobbin was Colonel of the City Light Horse,then burning with military ardour to resist the French Invasion.Colonel Dobbin's corps, in which old Mr. Osborne himself was but anindifferent corporal, had been reviewed by the Sovereign and the Dukeof York; and the colonel and alderman had been knighted. His son hadentered the army: and young Osborne followed presently in the sameregiment. They had served in the West Indies and in Canada. Theirregiment had just come home, and the attachment of Dobbin to GeorgeOsborne was as warm and generous now as it had been when the two wereschoolboys.

So these worthy people sat down to dinner presently. They talked aboutwar and glory, and Boney and Lord Wellington, and the last Gazette. Inthose famous days every gazette had a victory in it, and the twogallant young men longed to see their own names in the glorious list,and cursed their unlucky fate to belong to a regiment which had beenaway from the chances of honour. Miss Sharp kindled with this excitingtalk, but Miss Sedley trembled and grew quite faint as she heard it.Mr. Jos told several of his tiger-hunting stories, finished the oneabout Miss Cutler and Lance the surgeon; helped Rebecca to everythingon the table, and himself gobbled and drank a great deal.

He sprang to open the door for the ladies, when they retired, with themost killing grace--and coming back to the table, filled himself bumperafter bumper of claret, which he swallowed with nervous rapidity.

"He's priming himself," Osborne whispered to Dobbin, and at length thehour and the carriage arrived for Vauxhall.