Punch, Or the London Charivari, Volume 107, December 8th, 1894

The collector of statistics was fairly posed by the attitude assumed by his visitor. The elderly lad (or, rather, very young man) had claimed admittance on the score that he was an old boy of the School Board. He wished to give his evidence anent the fate of the State-educated juvenile population.
And you say you are not one of the 547 clerks? queried the collector.
No Sir, I am not. I would rather beg my bread from door to door than occupy a lofty stool from dawn to sundown.
And you are not one of the 413 milkboys?
Again, no. It has been a tradition in our family for centuries to avoid water, so how could I dabble in the milk trade?
And you are neither an actor, a jockey, nor a hairdresser?
I am not, was again the reply, couched in a tone of hauteur.
And you are not a soldier—one of the ten that left the School Board for the more or less tented field?
I am not—nor a sailor.
Then the collector of statistics paused for a moment, and spoke with a measure of hesitation.
You have not gone to the bad?
Like my 333 schoolfellows?