It was a winter afternoon, when I tapped at the door of his little counting-house, which was at the farther end of his long, low shop. As I did so (having entered by the back yard, where casks and boxes were taken in, and where there was the inscription, ‘Private way to the counting-house’), a shopman called to me from the counter that he was engaged. ‘Brother Gimblet’ (said the shopman, who was one of the brotherhood) ‘is with him.’ I thought this all the better for my purpose, and made bold to tap again. They were talking in a low tone, and money was passing; for I heard it being counted out. ‘Who is it?’ asked Brother Hawkyard, sharply. ‘George Silverman,’ I answered, holding the door open. ‘May I come in?’ Both brothers seemed so astounded to see me that I felt shyer than usual. But they looked quite cadaverous in the early gaslight, and perhaps that accidental circumstance exaggerated the expression of their faces. ‘What is the matter?’ asked Brother Hawkyard. ‘Ay! what is the matter?’ asked Brother Gimblet. ‘Nothing at all,’ I said, diffidently producing my document: ‘I am only the bearer of a letter from myself.’ ‘From yourself, George?’ cried Brother Hawkyard. ‘And to you,’ said I. ‘And to me, George?’ He turned paler, and opened it hurriedly; but looking over it, and seeing generally what it was, became less hurried, recovered his colour, and said, ‘Praise the Lord!’ ‘That’s it!’ cried Brother Gimblet. ‘Well put! Amen.’ Brother Hawkyard then said, in a livelier strain, ‘You must know, George, that Brother Gimblet and I are going to make our two businesses one. We are going into partnership. We are settling it now. Brother Gimblet is to take one clear half of the profits (O, yes! he shall have it; he shall have it to the last farthing).’ ‘D.V.!’ said Brother Gimblet, with his right fist firmly clinched on his right leg. ‘There is no objection,’ pursued Brother Hawkyard, ‘to my reading this aloud, George?’ As it was what I expressly desired should be done, after yesterday’s prayer, I more than readily begged him to read it aloud. He did so; and Brother Gimblet listened with a crabbed smile. ‘It was in a good hour that I came here,’ he said, wrinkling up his eyes. ‘It was in a good hour, likewise, that I was moved yesterday to depict for the terror of evil-doers a character the direct opposite of Brother Hawkyard’s. But it was the Lord that done it: I felt him at it while I was perspiring.’