"Yes, sir, ever-so-long ago--the Cataract of the Ganges at Astley's. I went to the gallery, and had a mill with--"
"There, we don't want particulars," interrupts the grinder; "but I would recommend you to mind your eyes, especially if you get under Guthrie. Mr. Muff, how do you define an ulcer?"
"The establishment of a raw," replies Mr. Muff.
"Tit! tit! tit!" continues the teacher, with an expression of pity. "Mr. Simpson, perhaps you can tell Mr. Muff what an ulcer is?"
"An abrasion of the cuticle produced by its own absorption," answers Mr. Simpson, all in a breath.
"Well. I maintain it's easier to say a _raw_ than all that," observes Mr. Muff.
"Pray, silence. Mr. Manhug, have you ever been sent for to a bad incised wound?"
"Yes, sir, when I was an apprentice: a man using a chopper cut off his hand."
"Cut off myself for the governor, like a two-year old."
"But now you have no governor, what plan would you pursue in a similar case?"
"Send for the nearest doctor--call him in."
"Yes, yes, but suppose he wouldn't come?"
"Pshaw! you are all quite children," exclaims the teacher. "Mr. Simpson, of what is bone chemically composed?"
"Of earthy matter, or _phosphate of lime_, and animal matter, or _gelatine_."
"Very good, Mr. Simpson. I suppose you don't know a great deal a bout bones, Mr. Rapp?"
"Not much, sir. I haven't been a great deal in that line. They give a penny for three pounds in Clare Market. That's what I call popular osteology."
"Gelatine enters largely into the animal fibres," says the leader, gravely. "Parchment, or skin, contains an important quantity, and is used by cheap pastry-cooks to make jellies."
"Well, I've heard of eating your _words_," says Mr. Rapp, "but never your _deeds_."
"Oh! oh! oh!" groan the pupils at this gross appropriation, and the class getting very unruly is broken up.
The examination at the College is altogether a more respectable ordeal than the jalap and rhubarb botheration at Apothecaries' Hall, and _par conséquence_, Mr. Muff goes up one evening with little misgivings as to his success. After undergoing four different sets of examiners, he is told he may retire, and is conducted by Mr Belfour into "Paradise," the room appropriated to the fortunate ones, which the curious stranger may see lighted up every Friday evening as he passes through Lincoln's-inn Fields. The inquisitors are altogether a gentlemanly set of men, who are willing to help a student out of a scrape, rather than "catch question" him into one: nay, more than once the candidate has attributed his success to a whisper prompted by the kind heart of the venerable and highly-gifted individual--now, alas! no more--who until last year assisted at the examinations.