"And what," continued Auberly, "would become of the fine arts if all men delighted in dirt, dust, dullness, and desks? Depend upon it, John, that our tastes and tendencies are not the result of accident; they were given to us for a purpose. I hold it as an axiom that when a man or a boy has a strong and decided bias or partiality for any particular work that he knows _something_ about, he has really a certain amount of capacity for that work beyond the average of men, and is led thereto by a higher power than that of man. Do not misunderstand me. I do not say that, when a boy expresses a longing desire to enter the navy or the army, he has necessarily an aptitude for these professions. Far from it. He has only a romantic notion of something about which, experimentally, he knows nothing; but, when man or boy has put his hand to any style of work, and _thereafter_ loves it and longs after it, I hold that that is the work for which he was destined, and for which he is best suited." "Perhaps you are right," said Barret, smoking harder than ever. "At all events, I heartily sympathise with you, and--" At this point the conversation was interrupted by a loud burst of whistling, as the street-door opened and the strains of "Rule Britannia" filled the entire building. The music was interrupted by the sudden opening of another door, and a rough growl from a male voice. "Don't get waxy, old feller," said the performer in a youthful voice, "I ain't a-goin' to charge you nothink for it. I always do my music gratis; havin' a bee-nevolient turn o' mind." The door was slammed violently, and "Rule Britannia" immediately burst forth with renewed and pointed emphasis. Presently it ceased, and a knock came to Barret's door. "Well, what d'ye want, you noisy scamp?" said Barret, flinging the door open, and revealing the small figure of Willie Willders. "Please, sir," said Willie, consulting the back of a note; "are you Mister T-Tom--Tupper, Esquire?" "No, I'm not." "Ain't there sitch a name in the house?" "No, not that I know of." Willie's face looked blank. "Well, I was told he lived here," he muttered, again consulting the note. "Here, let me look," said Barret, taking the note from the boy. "This is Tippet, not Tupper. He lives in the top floor. By the way, Auberly," said Barret, glancing over his shoulder, "Isn't Tom Tippet a sort of connection of yours?" "Yes; a distant one," said Fred carelessly, "too distant to make it worth while our becoming acquainted. He's rich and eccentric, I'm told. Assuredly, he must be the latter if he lives in such a hole as this. What are you staring at, boy?" This question was put to Willie. "Please, sir, are _you_ the Mr Auberly who was a'most skumfished with smoke at the Beverly Square fire t'other day, in tryin' to git hold o' yer sister?" Fred could not but smile as he admitted the fact. "Please, sir, I hope yer sister ain't the wuss of it, sir."