Poor David Boone, having sold himself to the tempter, went about his duties like an abject slave. He began by ordering goods from various wholesale dealers in the city, after which he took occasion to stand a good deal at his shop door and accost such of his neighbours as chanced to pass. The conversation at such times invariably began with the interesting topic of the weather, on which abstruse subject Boone and his friends displayed a surprising profundity of knowledge, by stating not only what the weather was at the time being, and what it had been in time past, but what it was likely to be in time to come. It soon diverged, however, to business, and usually ended in a display of fresh goods and invoices, and in references, on the part of Boone, to the felicitous state of trade at the time. Do what he would, however, this thriving tradesman could not act his part well. In the midst of his prosperity his smiles were ghastly and his laughter was sardonic. Even when commenting on the prosperity of trade his sighs were frequent and deep. One of his friends thought and said that prosperity was turning the poor man's brain. Others thought that he was becoming quite unnatural and unaccountable in his deportment; and a few, acting on the principle of the sailor's parrot, which "could not speak much, but was a tremendous thinker," gave no outward indication of their thoughts beyond wise looks and grave shakes of the head, by which most people understood them to signify that they feared there was a screw loose somewhere. This latter sentiment, it will be observed, is a very common one among the unusually wise ones of the earth, and is conveniently safe, inasmuch as it is more or less true of every person, place, and thing in this sad world of loose screws. CHAPTER TWENTY. A LITTLE MORE HATCHING. One night Edward Hooper, having consulted his watch frequently, and compared it with the clock of slow notoriety in the warehouse in Tooley Street, until his patience was almost gone, at last received the warning hiss, and had his books shut and put away before the minute-gun began to boom. He was out at the door and half-way up the lane, with his hat a good deal on one side of his head and very much over one eye, before the last shot was fired. "It's a jolly time of day this--the jolliest hour of the twenty-four," muttered Ned to himself, with a smile. His speech was thick, and his smile was rather idiotic, by reason of his having drunk more than his usual allowance at dinner that day. By way of mending matters, Ned resolved to renew his potations immediately, and announced his intentions to himself in the following words: "Com--mi--boy--y-you'll go--ave an--urrer por-o-porer--thash yer sort!" At a certain point in the drunkard's downward career he ceases to have any control over himself, and increases his speed from the usual staggering jog-trot to a brisk zigzag gallop that generally terminates abruptly in the grave.