“Andrew, what sort of a fist can you write?” demanded he. I shewed him some caligraphic specimens. “D___ me, if your y's and your g's hav'nt tails like skippingropes. We must have a little topping and tailing here, and I think you'll do. Here, make out this account, and enter it in the book.” He left me to do his bidding; and when he returned from the Stock-Exchange, inspected the performance, which I had executed with perspiring ardour. I watched his countenance. “That'll do--you're a brick! I'll make a man of you--d___ me.” From this day forward I had the honour of keeping his books, and making out the accounts. I was already a person of importance, and certainly some steps above the boys on the landing. I did not, however, obtain any advance in my weekly wages; but on “good-days” got a douceur, varying from half a crown to half a sovereign! and looked upon myself as a made man. Most of the receipts went to my father; whatever he returned to me I spent at a neighbouring book-stall, and in the course of twelve months I possessed a library of most amusing and instructive literature,--Heaven knows! of a most miscellaneous character, for I had no one to guide me in the selection. Among Mr. Timmis's numerous clients, was one Mr. Cornelius Crobble, a man of most extraordinary dimensions; he was also a “chum” of, and frequently made one of a party with, his friend Mr. Wallis, and other croneys, to white-bait dinners at Blackwall, and other intellectual banquets. In fact, he seldom made his appearance at the office, but the visit ended in an engagement to dine at some “crack-house” or other. The cost of the “feed,” as Mr. Timmis termed it, was generally decided by a toss of “best two and three;” and somehow it invariably happened that Mr. Crobble lost; but he was so good-humoured, that really it was a pleasure, as Mr. Wallis said, to “grub” at his expense. They nick-named him Maximo Rotundo--and he well deserved the title. “Where's Timmis?” said he, one day after he had taken a seat, and puffed and blowed for the space of five minutes--“Cuss them stairs; they'll be the death o' me.” I ran to summon my master. “How are you, old fellow?” demanded Mr. Timmis; “tip us your fin.” “Queer!” replied Mr. Crobble,--tapping his breast gently with his fat fist, and puffing out his cheeks--to indicate that his lungs were disordered. “What, bellows to mend?” cried my accomplished patron--“D___ me, never say die!” “Just come from Doctor Sprawles: says I must take exercise; no malt liquor--nothing at breakfast--no lunch--no supper.” “Why, you'll be a skeleton--a transfer from the consolidated to the reduced in no time,” exclaimed Mr. Timmis; and his friend joined in the laugh. “I was a-thinking, Timmis--don't you belong to a cricketclub?” “To be sure.” --“Of joining you.”