hted with
his acquaintance: on which the other modestly replied, that he had lived
in London the better part of his life, and of course had his eyes about
him; and went on with his catalogue to Pen.

"There's a lot of Irish here," he said; "that Corkoran's one, and
I can't say I like him. You see that handsome chap with the blue
neck-cloth, and pink shirt, and yellow waistcoat, that's another; that's
Molloy Maloney of Ballymaloney, and nephew to Major-General Sir Hector
O'Dowd, he, he," Lowton said, trying to imitate the Hibernian
accent. "He's always bragging about his uncle; and came into Hall in
silver-striped trousers the day he had been presented. That other near
him, with the long black hair, is a tremendous rebel. By Jove, sir, to
hear him at the Forum it makes your blood freeze; and the next is an
Irishman, too, Jack Finucane, reporter of a newspaper. They all stick
together, those Irish. It's your turn to fill your glass. What? you
won't have any port? Don't like port with your dinner? Here's your
health." And this worthy man found himself not the less attached to
Pendennis because the latter disliked port wine at dinner.

It was while Pen was taking his share of one of these dinners with his
acquaintance Lowton as the captain of his mess, that there came to join
them a gentleman in a barrister's gown, who could not find a seat, as it
appeared, amongst the persons of his own degree, and who strode over the
table and took his place on the bench where Pen sate. He was dressed in
old clothes and a faded gown, which hung behind him, and he wore a shirt
which, though clean, was extremely ragged, and very different to
the magnificent pink raiment of Mr. Molloy Maloney, who occupied
a commanding position in the next mess. In order to notify their
appearance at dinner, it is the custom of the gentlemen who eat in the
Upper Temple Hall to write down their names upon slips of paper, which
are provided for that purpose, with a pencil for each mess. Lowton wrote
his name first, then came Arthur Pendennis, and the next was that of
the gentleman in the old clothes. He smiled when he saw Pen's name,
and looked at him. "We ought to know each other," he said. "We're both
Boniface men; my name's Warrington."

"Are you St---- Warrington?" Pen said, delighted to see this hero.

Warrington laughed--"Stunning Warrington--yes," he said, "I recollect
you in your freshman's term. But you appear to have quite cut me out."

"The col