Bruce was standing in the Butteries, where he had just been joined by Lord Fitzurse and Sir John D’Acres, who by virtue of their titles—certainly not by any other virtue—sat among reverend Professors and learned Doctors at the high table, far removed from the herd of common undergraduates. With the three were Mr. Boodle and Mr. Tulk, (the “Mister” is given them in the college-lists out of respect for the long purses which have purchased them, the privilege of fellow-commoners or ballantiogennaioi), who enjoyed the same enviable distinction and happy privilege. By the screens were four or five sizars; a few more were scattered about in the passage waiting, whilst the servants hurriedly placed the dishes on the table set apart for them; and Julian was chatting to Lillyston, who chanced at the moment to have been passing by.
“Who is that table for?” asked D’Acres, pointing through the open door of the hall.
“Oh, that’s for the sizars,” tittered the feeble-minded Boodle, who tittered at everything.
“S–s–sizars!” stammered Lord Fitzurse. “What’s that mean? Are they v–v–very big f–f–fellows?”
“Ha! ha! ha!” said Bruce. “No; they’re sons of gyps and that kind of thing, who feed on the semese fragments of the high table.”
“They must be g–g–ghouls!” said his lordship, shudderingly.
“Hush,” said D’Acres, who was a thorough gentleman, “some of the sizars may be here;” and he dropped Bruce’s arm.
“Pooh! they’ll feel flattered,” said Bruce carelessly, as D’Acres walked off.
“Indeed!” said Julian, striding indignantly forward, for the conversation was so loud that he had heard every word of it. “Flattered to be the butt for the insolence of puppyism and every fool who is coarse enough to insult them publicly.”
“Who the d–d–d–deuce are you?” said Lord Fitzurse, “for you’re coming it r–r–rather strong.”