“YouCAN’T？”saysMr。Cuff，layingholdofthatdocumentinwhichmanywordswerescratchedout，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。”