Ярмарка тщеславия

Dobbin of Ours

           Figs,aloneintheschoolroom,wasblunderingoverahomeletter;whenCuff,entering,badehimgouponsomemessage,ofwhichtartswereprobablythesubject.

           "Ican’t,"saysDobbin;"Iwanttofinishmyletter."

           "YouCAN’T?"saysMr.Cuff,layingholdofthatdocument(inwhichmanywordswerescratchedout,manyweremis-spelt,onwhichhadbeenspentIdon’tknowhowmuchthought,andlabour,andtears;forthepoorfellowwaswritingtohismother,whowasfondofhim,althoughshewasagrocer’swife,andlivedinabackparlourinThamesStreet)."YouCAN’T?"saysMr.Cuff:"Ishouldliketoknowwhy,pray?Can’tyouwritetooldMotherFigsto-morrow?"

           "Don’tcallnames,"Dobbinsaid,gettingoffthebenchverynervous.

           "Well,sir,willyougo?"crowedthecockoftheschool.

           "Putdowntheletter,"Dobbinreplied;"nogentlemanreadthletterth."

           "Well,NOWwillyougo?"saystheother.

           "No,Iwon’t.Don’tstrike,orI’llTHMASHyou,"roarsoutDobbin,springingtoaleadeninkstand,andlookingsowicked,thatMr.Cuffpaused,turneddownhiscoatsleevesagain,puthishandsintohispockets,andwalkedawaywithasneer.Buthenevermeddledpersonallywiththegrocer’sboyafterthat;thoughwemustdohimthejusticetosayhealwaysspokeofMr.Dobbinwithcontemptbehindhisback.

           Sometimeafterthisinterview,ithappenedthatMr.

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