“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。”

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