He had been engaged, it appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with a giant of his own Form, whom he had worsted in the combat. »Didn't I pitch into him, that's all?« says he in the elation of victory; and when I asked whence the quarrel arose, he stoutly informed me that »Wolf Minor, his opponent, had been bullying a little boy, and that he (the gigantic Newcome) wouldn't stand it.«

So, being called away from the school, I said farewell and God bless you to the brave little man, who remained awhile at the Grey Friars, where his career and troubles had only just begun. Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young man occupying chambers in the Temple, where our rencontre took place in the manner already described.

Poor Costigan's outrageous behaviour had caused my meeting with my schoolfellow of early days to terminate so abruptly and unpleasantly, that I scarce expected to see Clive again, or at any rate to renew my acquaintance with the indignant East Indian warrior who had quitted our company in such a huff. Breakfast, however, was scarcely over in my chambers the next morning, when there came a knock at the outer door, and my clerk introduced, »Colonel Newcome and Mr. Newcome.«

Perhaps the (joint) occupant of the chambers in Lamb Court, Temple, felt a little pang of shame at hearing the name of the visitors; for, if the truth must be told, I was engaged pretty much as I had been occupied on the night previous, and was smoking a cigar over the Times newspaper. How many young men in the Temple smoke a cigar after breakfast as they read the Times? My friend and companion of those days, and all days, Mr. George Warrington, was employed with his short pipe, and was not in the least disconcerted at the appearance of the visitors, as he would not have been had the Archbishop of Canterbury stepped in.

Little Clive looked curiously about our queer premises, while the Colonel shook me cordially by the hand. No traces of yesterday's wrath were visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted his honest bronzed countenance, as he too looked round the old room, with its dingy curtains and prints and bookcases, its litter of proof-sheets, blotted manuscripts, and books for review, empty soda-water bottles, cigar boxes, and what not.

»I went off in a flame of fire last night,« says the Colonel, »and being cooled this morning, thought it but my duty to call on Mr. Pendennis and apologize for my abrupt behaviour. The conduct of that tipsy old captain – what is his name? – was so abominable, that I could not bear that Clive should be any longer in the same room with him, and I went off without saying a word of thanks or good-night to my son's old friend. I owe you a shake of the hand for last night, Mr. Pendennis.« And, so saying, he was kind enough to give me his hand a second time.

»And this is the abode of the Muses, is it, sir?« our guest went on. »I know your writings very well. Clive here used to send me the Pall Mall Gazette every month.«

»We took it at Smiffle, regular,« says Clive. »Always patronize Grey Friars men.« »Smiffle,« it must be explained, is a fond abbreviation for Smithfield, near to which great mart of mutton and oxen our school is situated, and old Cistercians often playfully designate their place of education by the name of the neighbouring market.

»Clive sent me the Gazette every month; and I read your romance of ›Walter Lorraine‹ in my boat as I was coming down the river to Calcutta.«

»Have Pen's immortal productions made their appearance on board Bengalee budgerows, and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks of Jumna?« asks Warrington, that sceptic, who respects no work of modern genius.

»I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta,« says the Colonel, simply. »I dare say you have heard of her. She is one of the most dashing women in all India. She was delighted with your work; and I can tell you it is not with every man's writing that Mrs. Timmins is pleased,« he added, with a knowing air.

»It's capital!« broke in Clive. »I say, that part you know where Walter runs away with Neæra, and the General can't pursue them, though he has got the post-chaise at the door, because Tim O'Toole has hidden his wooden leg! By Jove, it's capital! – all the funny part. I don't like the sentimental stuff, and suicide and that; and as for poetry, I hate poetry.«

»Pen's is not first chop,« says Warrington. »I am obliged to take the young man down from time to time, Colonel Newcome. Otherwise he would grow so conceited there would be no bearing him.«

»I say?« says Clive.

»What were you about to remark?« asks Mr. Warrington, with an air of great interest.

»I say, Pendennis,« continued the artless youth, »I thought you were a great swell. When we used to read about the grand parties in the Pall Mall Gazette, the fellows used to say you were at every one of them; and you see, I thought you must have chambers in the Albany, and lots of horses to ride, and a valet and a groom, and a cab at the very least.«

»Sir,« says the Colonel, »I hope it is not your practice to measure and estimate gentlemen by such paltry standards as those. A man of letters follows the noblest calling which any man can pursue. I would rather be the author of a work of genius than be Governor-General of India. I admire genius. I salute it wherever I meet it.