He repeated the figure in a scream. “Five-and-twenty shillings for writing like that! And can't spell commission! Don't know anything about the business. Five-and-twenty!--Tell you what I'll do: I'll give you twelve.” “But I can't live on twelve,” I explained. “Can't live on twelve! Do you know why? Because you don't know how to live. I know you all. One veal and ham pie, one roley-poley, one Dutch cheese and a pint of bitter.” His recital made my mouth water. “You overload your stomachs, then you can't work. Half the diseases you young fellows suffer from are brought about by overeating.” “Now, you take my advice,” continued Mr. Lott; “try vegetarianism. In the morning, a little oatmeal. Wonderfully strengthening stuff, oatmeal: look at the Scotch. For dinner, beans. Why, do you know there's more nourishment in half a pint of lentil beans than in a pound of beefsteak--more gluten. That's what you want, more gluten; no corpses, no dead bodies. Why, I've known young fellows, vegetarians, who have lived like fighting cocks on sevenpence a day. Seven times seven are forty-nine. How much do you pay for your room?” I told him. “Four-and-a-penny and two-and-six makes six-and-seven. That leaves you five and fivepence for mere foolery. Good God! what more do you want?” “I'll take eighteen, sir,” I answered. “I can't really manage on less.” “Very well, I won't beat you down,” he answered. “Fifteen shillings a week.” “I said eighteen,” I persisted. “Well, and I said fifteen,” he retorted, somewhat indignant at the quibbling. “That's splitting the difference, isn't it? I can't be fairer than that.” I dared not throw away the one opportunity that had occurred. Anything was better than return to the Reading Rooms, and the empty days full of despair. I accepted, and it was agreed that I should come the following Monday morning. “Nabbed?” was Minikin's enquiry on my return to the back office for my hat. I nodded. “What's he wasting on you?” “Fifteen shillings a week,” I whispered. “Felt sure somehow that he'd take a liking to you,” answered Minikin. “Don't be ungrateful and look thin on it.” Outside the door I heard Mr. Lott's shrill voice demanding to know where postage stamps were to be found. “At the Post-office,” was Minikin's reply.