"But I want money to-day," cried Septimus fiercely. "Will you give me money? will the world outside? will anybody here in this city of wealth trust me the money to bury my child? Would you have me go to the parish?" He stopped, and the animation that had flashed into his face began to fade again, to leave it dull and despairing. "Why, as to the first, sir," said the old man, "I would, upon my soul, if I had it,--I would indeed; but as to the people outside--" and he began to shake his head grimly. "Poor men have no friends, sir--as a rule, you know--as a rule." "None!" said Septimus bitterly; "none!" "But it would be a pity," said the old man; "such a new, well-cut letter too; and you'll get next to nothing for it. Gave 'most half-a-crown a pound for it, I dessay?" Septimus nodded. "Thought so, sir, and--well, if you must, sir, I'll help you all the same, and gladly--only too gladly; but I don't like to see it pawned or sold. You helped me, sir, when it was harder with me than ever it was in my life before, sir; and damme, sir, I'll sell my shirt, sir, to help you, if it will do any good. In the morning, then, sir, I'll be here with a barrow." "A barrow?" said Septimus. "Yes; you know, type's heavy stuff." "Matthew Space," said the snuffly old fellow, screwing his face up as if with disgust, when he stood once more in Carey-street, "Matthew Space, follower of the profession of noble Caxton, as a rule, sir, I respect you. I don't despise you for your poverty, or your seedy coat, for you are a man of parts and education; but at the present moment, sir, I'm disgusted with you. You have been drinking innocence from the tiny prattling lips of that little child--God bless it!" he cried earnestly, dashing a maundering tear from one eye--"God bless it! a child like that would have made another man of me; and now that poor fellow has lost one like it. But there, sir, I'm disgusted with your ways: a man does what nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand wouldn't do--lends you almost his last shilling--and now, sir, that an opportunity offers of helping him in his trouble, you make empty professions, false promises, and offer to sell your shirt, you humbug, you--to sell your shirt, sir, when you haven't got a shirt in the world!" "That's true enough," said the old man, after walking a little way, "true, if it ain't decent; but it's a kind of poverty that buttons will always conceal, which they won't if it's a coat; while if there is anything that looks beggarly, it's the want of boots. I'd sooner be without a hat any day in the week. But you're taking fresh copy, Matt Space, before you've finished the old, and leaving out your points."