as bad as your own. If, however, it will assist your recollection in
any way, my name is Thomas Dribble, at your service."

"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."