"Figs" was the fellow whom he despised most, and with whom, though always abusing him, and sneering at him, he scarcely ever condescended to hold personal communication.
One day in private, the two young gentlemen had had a difference.

Figs, alone in the schoolroom, was blundering over a home letter; when Cuff, entering, bade him go upon some message, of which tarts were probably the subject.
"I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter." "You CAN'T ?" says Mr.Cuff, laying hold of that document (in which many words were scratched out, many were mis-spelt, on which had been spent I don't know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for the poor fellow was writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she was a grocer's wife, and lived in a back parlour in Thames Street).

"You CAN'T ?" says Mr.Cuff: "I should like to know why, pray?
Can't you write to old Mother Figs to-morrow ?" "Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench very nervous.
"Well, sir, will you go ?" crowed the cock of the school.
"Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman readth letterth." "Well, NOW will you go ?" says the other.
"No, I won't.

Don't strike, or I'll THMASH you," roars out Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked, that Mr.Cuff paused, turned down his coat sleeves again, put his hands into his pockets, and walked away with a sneer.

But he never meddled personally with the grocer's boy after that; though we must do him the justice to say he always spoke of Mr.Dobbin with contempt behind his back.
Some time after this interview, it happened that Mr.Cuff, on a sunshiny afternoon, was in the neighbourhood of poor William Dobbin, who was lying under a tree in the playground, spelling over a favourite copy of the Arabian Nights which he had apart from the rest of the school, who were pursuing their various sports--quite lonely, and almost happy.