When Mr. Pringle arrived on the Scadgerian steps, he looked for a knocker, and finding none, he pulled the Scadgerian bell. A responsive click and the partial unlatching of the door invited him to push; the door yielded, and he found himself in a large and empty hall, on one side of which was a glass door, with the word "Office" in faded gilt letters on a white ground. This glass-door being open, Mr. Pringle walked straight through, and found himself in the "office." He had seen a good many offices in his time, but never one like this. He had never seen an office with musical instruments in it before; and here were four or five pianos standing ranged against the wall, to say nothing of harps in leather cases leaning drunkenly in corners, and a few cornets-à-piston in green boxes, and a guitar or two with blue ribbons to hang them round your neck by, just as if they had come fresh from the necks of Spanish _donnas_. And there were slack-baked-looking old pictures in heavy Dutch-metal frames--fine specimens of old masters--saints with skulls and Bibles in front of them, and very ascetic cheek-bones and great phrenological development of talent and courage; Dutch boors standing on one leg and drinking glasses of ale, and yawning youths with an effect of shaded candlelight on their faces. There were modern pictures, too, of lakes and Thames scenery, and girls with fair hair, which, when compared with the old ones, looked as if they had been painted in milk-and-water; and there were three driving-whips in one corner, a set of harness across a chair, and the leather cushions of a brougham under it. There was a bronze umbrella-stand, formed by a dog holding a whip in his mouth, a big French clock, and a couple of chemist's bottles, red and green; and in the midst of all this confusion stood a little shrivelled old man, with very white hair and a very red face--a dirty little old man dressed in a rusty suit of black, who addressed Mr. Pringle in a rusty creaking voice, and wanted to know "his pleasure." "I--I wish to speak to Mr. Scadgers," said Mr. Pringle, with a modesty and hesitation altogether strange to him. "Ah!" said the little old man; "deary me! yes!" and then he seated himself on the edge of a wine-hamper, and began to count his fingers with great interest, as though not quite sure of the number he really possessed. "Mr. Scadgers!" said Pringle, after a minute or two. "Ah, yes! I'll call him," said the little old man, and rang a bell which lurked in the corner of the chimney-piece.