So saying, Mr. Bale retired into his private room again. Mr. Medlin placed his papers inside his desk, locked it, took off his coat and hung it on a peg, put on another coat and his hat, and then turned to Bob. "Ready?" "Quite ready." Mr. Medlin led the way out of the counting house, and Bob followed. Mr. Medlin walked fast, and Bob had to step out to keep up with him. The clerk appeared scarcely conscious of his presence, until they were beyond the more crowded thoroughfare, then he said: "Two miles, out Hackney way. Not too far!" "Not at all," Bob replied. "The farther the better." "No burglars there. Wouldn't pay." And Bob thought that the shadow of a smile passed across his face. "We can do without them," Bob said. "Hate coming here, I suppose?" "That I do," Bob said, cordially. Mr. Medlin nodded. "Not so bad as it looks," he said, and then walked on again, in silence. Presently there was a break in the houses. They were getting beyond the confines of business London. "Do you see this little garden?" Mr. Medlin asked, suddenly, in a tone so unlike that in which he had before spoken that Bob quite started. The lad looked at the little patch of ground, with some stunted shrubs, but could see nothing remarkable in it. "Yes, I see it, sir," he said. "That, Bob," Mr. Medlin went on, "--for I suppose you are called Bob--marks the end of all things." Bob opened his eyes in astonishment, and again examined the little garden. "It marks, Bob, the delimitation between London and country, between slavery and freedom. Here, every morning, I leave myself behind; here, every evening, I recover myself--or, at least, a considerable portion of myself--at a further mark, half a mile on, I am completely restored. "I suppose you used to find just the same thing, at the door of the schoolroom?" "A good deal, sir," Bob said, in a much brighter tone than he had used, since he said goodbye to the fellows at Tulloch's. "I am glad you feel like that. I expect you will get like that, as to the city, in time; but mind, lad, you must always find yourself again. You stick to that. You make a mark somewhere, leave yourself behind in the morning, and pick yourself up again when you come back. It is a bad thing for those who forget to do that. They might as well hang themselves--better. "In there," and he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, "we are all machines, you know. It isn't us, not a bit of it. There is just the flesh, the muscle, the bones, and a frozen bit of our brains. The rest of us is left behind. If, as we come out, we forget to pick it up, we lose ourselves altogether, before long; and then there we are, machines to the end of our lives. You remember that, Bob. Keep it always in mind." "It is a pity that my uncle didn't get the same advice, forty years ago, Mr. Medlin." "It is a pity my employer did not marry. It is a pity my employer lives in that dull house, in that dull lane, all by himself," Mr. Medlin said, angrily.