"Ye--es, sir," was the meekly reluctant answer. "This day month you leave, sir!" said Mr. Tag-rag, solemnly--as if conscious that he was passing a sort of sentence of death upon the presumptuous delinquent. "Very well, Mr. Tag-rag--anything that pleases you pleases your humble servant. I _will_ go this day month, and welcome--I've long wished--and now, p'r'aps," he added significantly--"it's rather convenient than otherwise"---- "Then you _sha'n't_ leave, sir," said Tag-rag, furiously. "But I will, sir. You've given me warning; and, if you haven't, now I give _you_ warning," replied Titmouse; turning, however, very pale, and experiencing a certain sudden sinking of the heart--for this was a serious and most unlooked-for event, and for a while put out of his head all the agitating thoughts of the last few hours. Poor Titmouse had enough to bear--what with the delicate raillery and banter of his refined companions for the rest of the day, find the galling tyranny of Mr. Tag-rag, (who dogged him about all day, setting him about the most menial and troublesome offices he could, and constantly saying mortifying things to him before customers,) and the state of miserable suspense in which Mr. Gammon had thought fit to leave him; I say that surely all this was enough for him to bear without having to encounter at night, as he did, on his return to his lodgings, his blustering landlady, who vowed that if she sold him out and out she would be put off no longer--and his pertinacious and melancholy tailor, who, with sallow unshaven face, told him of five children at home, all ill of the small-pox, and his wife in an hospital--and he _implored_ a payment on account. This sufferer succeeded in squeezing out of Titmouse seven shillings on account, and his landlady extorted ten; which staved off a distress--direful word!--for some week or two longer; and so they left him in the possession of eight shillings or so, to last till next quarter-day--six weeks off! He sighed heavily, barred his door, and sat down opposite his little table, on which was nothing but a solitary thin candle, and on which his eyes rested unconsciously, till the stench of it, burning right down into the socket, roused him from his wretched revery. Then he unlocked his box, and took out his Bible and the papers which had been produced to Mr. Gammon, and gazed at them with intense but useless scrutiny. Unable to conjecture what bearing they could have upon himself or his fortunes, he hastily replaced them in his box, threw off his clothes, and flung himself on his bed, to pass a far more dismal night than he had known for years.