“What time have I got to go, sir?” asked Bassett, resignedly. “Time?” exclaimed the other. “Now, at once. Avaunt!” The boy stood for a moment gazing at him in mute appeal, and then, moving with laggard steps to the door, closed it gently behind him. A sudden outbreak of four or five voices, all speaking at once, that filtered through the wall, satisfied Mr. Vyner that his orders were being obeyed. Horrified at the grave charge of disobedience, Bassett distributed his work and left with what the junior clerk—whom he had constituted residuary legatee—considered unnecessary and indecent haste. The latter gentleman, indeed, to the youth’s discomfiture, accompanied him as far as the entrance, and spoke eloquently upon the subject all the way downstairs. His peroration consisted almost entirely of a repetition of the words “lazy fat-head.” With this hostile voice still ringing in his ears Bassett strolled aimlessly about the streets of his native town. He spent some time at a stall in front of a second-hand bookshop, and was just deep in an enthralling romance, entitled “Story of a Lump of Coal,” when a huge hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he turned to meet the admiring gaze of Mr. Walters. “More book-larning,” said the boatswain, in tones of deep respect. “It’s a wonder to me that that head of yours don’t bust.” “Heads don’t burst,” said Bassett. “The brain enlarges with use the same as muscles with exercise. They can’t burst.” “I only wish I had arf your larning,” said Mr. Walters; “just arf, and I should be a very different man to wot I am now. Well, so long.” “Where are you going?” inquired the youth, replacing the book. “Seven Trees,” replied the other, displaying a small parcel. “I’ve got to take this over there for the skipper. How far do you make it?” “Four miles,” said Bassett. “I’ll come with you, if you like.” “Wot about the office?” inquired the boatswain, in surprise. Bassett, explained, and a troubled expression appeared on the seaman’s face as he listened. He was thinking of the last conversation he had had with the youth, and the hearty way in which he had agreed with him as to the pernicious action of malt and other agreeable liquors on the human frame. He remembered that he had committed himself to the statement that wild horses could not make him drink before six in the evening, and then not more than one half-pint. “It’s a long walk for a ’ot day,” he said, slowly. “It might be too much for you.” “Oh, no; I’m a good walker,” said Bassett. “Might be too much for that head of yours,” said Mr. Walters, considerately. “I often walk farther than that,” was the reply.