TOM SPEING'S BACK 

 PAELOUi^. 



I HOPE I shall not get a reputation for being a pothouse 

 snob because I invite my reader to come into Tom Spring's 

 private parlour. In the month of February, 1842, I was 

 launched into the little village of London. I fancy my 

 candour proved my death-warrant, for on paterfamilias 

 suggesting the propriety of my commencing a profession at 

 the age of eighteen off, my reply was, " Let me have six 

 months more, sir, at school, or I shall miss playing in the 

 Lord's eleven again this summer." Paterfamilias was wise, 

 and foresaw that my mind was on athletics more than on 

 work, and I am sure he was right. When started in a place 

 of business I was in doubt where to go for my luncheon, for 

 I was utterly green to London, when a name on a lamp close 

 to Gray's Inn gateway caught my eye. That name was 

 " Tom Spring." 



I suppose that all the world knows that Spring's real 

 name was Winter. He appeared at the old Fives Court 

 sixty years ago, or thereabouts, and when his name was 

 asked for (according to history), one Paddington Jones 

 shouted out " Young Spring." 



At school we always took in BelVs Life for the 



