"What, Tom Dribble, who was at old Birchell's school in Warwickshire?"
"The same," said the other, coolly.
"Why, then we are old schoolmates, though it's no wonder you don't
recollect me. I was your junior by several years; don't you recollect
little Jack Buckthorne?"
Here then ensued a scene of school-fellow recognition; and a world of
talk about old school times and school pranks. Mr. Dribble ended by
observing, with a heavy sigh, "that times were sadly changed since
those days."
"Faith, Mr. Dribble," said I, "you seem quite a different man here from
what you were at dinner. I had no idea that you had so much stuff in
you. There you were all silence; but here you absolutely keep the table
in a roar."
"Ah, my dear sir," replied he, with a shake of the head and a shrug of
the shoulder, "I'm a mere glow-worm. I never shine by daylight.
Besides, it's a hard thing for a poor devil of an author to shine at
the table of a rich bookseller. Who do you think would laugh at any
thing I could say, when I had some of the current wits of the day about
me? But here, though a poor devil, I am among still poorer devils than
myself; men who look up to me as a man of letters and a bel esprit, and
all my jokes pass as sterling gold from the mint."
"You surely do yourself injustice, sir," said I; "I have certainly
heard more good things from you this evening than from any of those
beaux esprits by whom you appear to have been so daunted."
"Ah, sir!
