Mining Journals. Even the playground was turned into a Money Market. Cricket had been banished to make way for the more exciting game of "Bulls and Bears," and the Principal passing through occasionally, would sometimes stop and say, "That's right, my boys, learn to do each other, and remember the motto of your School, 'Monies maketh man.'" Posted up upon the gates, communicated by telegraph hourly from the City, were every day to be found the latest prices. And it was to get a first look at this that the Fourth Form had just left its class-room with a rush.

A crowd of eager faces were anxiously scanning the latest quotations, and notes were being taken in a score of pocket-books, whipped out for the purpose. Tom Brown & Co.—he had earned this sobriquet from his companions for his shrewd business capacity—did not, however, join the throng, but stood a little way off, looking on, and waiting for the excitement to abate. Gradually it calmed down, and the boys broke up into little knots and groups, discussing the state of the market. Then he spoke:—

"Look here, you fellows," he said, "I've got a good thing on here, that, I fancy, will be more worth your attention than even the latest prices." He pulled a prospectus from his pocket. An interested crowd closed round him at once. "It's 'Old Mother Noggins, Limited,'" he went on, reading from the paper before him, "This Company has been started for the purpose of acquiring at wholesale prices all the tarts, bull's-eyes, apples, toffy, and ginger-beer, forming the present stock-in-trade of Old Mother Noggins's store, and for retailing the same at a figure, that will, after paying the guaranteed interest on the fourpenny debenture shares, admit of the declaration of a dividend of 14 per cent. on the ordinary paid-up share capital of the Company.

A buzz of excited admiration went up from the throng. The Fourth Form at St. Dunstan's had not for a long time had such a good thing put before it.

"I know," continued Tom, producing a bundle of forms of application from his pocket, "that you fellows, would like to hear of it. Who'll go for it?"

There was a loud responsive shout of "I!" and a dozen hands were at once stretched towards the speaker. Business commenced, and sixpences, shillings, and half-crowns were pouring into Tom's pockets faster than he could cram them there. He was making a very good morning's work of it. Presently, a dull, heavy-looking boy joined the group.

"Hullo, Flopper!" cried Tom, addressing this last arrival, "why don't you put that ten bob your Uncle sent you into this thing? I'll be bound he told you to turn it over. You won't get such a chance every day."

"What is it?" asked Flopper.

A chorus of voices instantly joined in a brief explanation of the advantages of investing in "Old Mother Noggins' Limited."

"By Jove!" said Flopper, "I don't know that I won't."

"Not if I know it," cried an authoritative voice, breaking in upon the scene. It was Snagsby, the "Sharper" who spoke. There was a general look in his direction, and a disposition to make way for him as he approached. He had been mixed up disadvantageously in a recent "corner" in marbles, and had from time to time floated several concerns that had never paid any dividends, and was generally regarded as a "queer" customer in consequence. It was for this reason that he had been nicknamed the "Sharper."

"And what do you want him to do with his money?" asked Tom, stepping forward in a defiant attitude.

"He'll put every blessed halfpenny of it into my 'General Pen-knife Supply,'" was the laconic reply. "He signed for the allotment last night."

"But I've changed my mind," pleaded Flopper, helplessly, and he handed the half-sovereign to Tom.

"You give that up!" cried the Sharper, menacingly.

"You try to take it!" replied Tom, grimly.

In another instant the Sharper had flown at Tom. There was a brief struggle. Tom hit out at him, and caught him in the face.

"Oh, that's your game, is it!" shouted the Sharper. "You'll fight me for that."

"Fight you? When and where you like," replied Tom.

There was a general cheering and throwing up of hats.

"Hooray! There's going to be a fight between the Sharper and Tom Brown & Co.," shouted the Fourth Form. They hadn't had such good news for a long time.

The whole School was there, and the third round had been fought. Betting had been fast and furious, and there had been several attempts made by the supporters of both champions to break the ring and put an end to the contest when the fortunes of the day seemed to be going against their own special favourite. But now a curious thing happened. After a little preliminary sparring in the fourth round, Tom Brown & Co., suddenly dropping on one knee, went to the ground.

In a few seconds the surprising news was known that he had given in. The sponge was thrown up, and the Sharper declared the victor. Tom was quickly surrounded by his friends, and led off the field. Flopper ran up to him. "I'm so sorry, Tom," he said, "that you should have fought in my quarrel, and have got licked."

There was a twinkle in Tom's eye. "My dear fellow," he replied. "Don't imagine I wouldn't have thrashed him; but business is business, and I got a good price for not doing so. Didn't you twig that I sold the fight?"

That night Tom Brown & Co. wrote home an enthusiastic account of his day's doings to his parents. The next morning, Tom Brown, Senior, referring to the letter with a glow of pride on his commercial face, remarked to his better-half that the boy's training seemed perfect, and that he was destined to turn out remarkably well. "I can't tell you," he added, "how I long to see that boy loose upon the Stock Exchange. He will be a credit to the family."

A book has been recently published entitled The Amateur's Guide to Architecture, by Sophie Beale. Sophie shows us how a house should be Beale't. But just imagine an Amateur Architect!!

The complaint of the Charity Organisation Society, slightly varied from Shakspeare, is that "The quality of Mercy is not trained."

SHOWS VIEWS.

By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere.

What can be more dismal than the fourth day of a Fancy Bazaar for a "Sale of Work," in aid of a parochial charity? Honestly, I do not know. I fancy that even the proverbial "Mute at a funeral," must be livelier. That is my present opinion, and it was the same last Thursday, when lured by a programme quaintly printed in "old-faced" type, and having "ye" in lieu of "the," and "Maister" instead of Mister, I made my way to the Portman Rooms in Baker Street, (formerly Madame Tussaud's) and sought admission to "Old Marybone Gardens, A.D. 1670." Outside the ex depôt of Waxworks, were two persons in the costume of the last Century distributing circulars, and later on I met another couple