"Decent looking?" "Yes." "A good writer?" "Here is his last letter to me," said Mrs. Pamflett, handing it to the miser. He examined it carefully; the writing was excellent. He returned it to his housekeeper. "How about his figures?" "He is splendid at them. That is what he was distinguished for at school." "Was he distinguished for anything else? For instance, for keeping his own counsel?" "He can do that." "Is he fond of pleasure?" "He wants to get along in the world." "Willing to work hard?" "Try him." "I will think of it," said Miser Farebrother, going to his room. It was not his habit to do things in a hurry. He passed the night as usual writing in his account-books, and making calculations of money and dates, and reckoning up compound interest at different rates of percentage per month. He never lent money at interest per annum, but always at compound interest per month, a system which swelled his profits enormously. A ledger slipped from the table to the ground, and stooping to reach it, he found himself unable to rise. He beat the floor with his hands, and called out for his housekeeper; but it was many minutes before she heard him and came to his help. She assisted him to his feet, and into his chair, where he sat, twisting and groaning. "Rub my back, rub my back! Lower, lower! A little more to the left! No; that's not the place! Ah, now you're right. Keep rubbing--harder, harder. Oh! oh!" "I told you the other night," said Mrs. Pamflett, composedly, as she carried out his instructions, "when you walked home from the station in the sopping rain, that you'd catch lumbago; and now you've got it." "Oh! oh!" cried Miser Farebrother. "You're a witch, you're a witch! You laid a spell upon me. What did you do it for? Do you think I shall put you down in my will, and that my death will make you rich? You're mistaken; I've no money to leave and if I had, _you_ shouldn't have it. No one should have it--no one. 'Walk home in the rain!'--what else could I do? Can I afford carriages to ride in? You know I can't; you know it, you know it! Rub away--harder--harder! Have you got no life in you?" He lay back in his chair, gasping, his pains somewhat relieved. "You won't be able to move to-morrow," said Mrs. Pamflett; "and now you've begun to have lumbago, it will never leave you." "What! You're putting more spells on me, are you? Witches ought to be burnt. It's a good job there's nothing particular to do at the office to-morrow; only it isn't safe to leave it alone day or night." "No, it isn't," said Mrs. Pamflett. "Somebody ought to sleep there. I always thought that. Jeremiah could. You'd best get to bed now; I'll help you. Then I'll get some turpentine and flannel; it will do you good, perhaps. Yes, some person in whom you have confidence, should sleep in the office." "There's no such person," he snarled. "Everybody tries to rob me--everybody--everybody!"