“Oh, Mr. Stiffelkind,” said I, “don't laugh at my misery: she has not left me a single shilling under heaven. And I shall starve: I do believe I shall starve.” And I began to cry fit to break my heart. “Starf! stoff and nonsense! You vill never die of starfing--you vill die of HANGING, I tink--ho! ho!--and it is moch easier vay too.” I didn't say a word, but cried on; till everybody in the street turned round and stared. “Come, come,” said Stiffelkind, “do not gry, Gaptain Stobbs--it is not goot for a Gaptain to gry--ha! ha! Dere--come vid me, and you shall have a dinner, and a bregfast too,--vich shall gost you nothing, until you can bay vid your earnings.” And so this curious old man, who had persecuted me all through my prosperity, grew compassionate towards me in my ill-luck; and took me home with him as he promised. “I saw your name among de Insolvents, and I vowed, you know, to make you repent dem boots. Dere, now, it is done and forgotten, look you. Here, Betty, Bettchen, make de spare bed, and put a clean knife and fork; Lort Cornvallis is come to dine vid me.” I lived with this strange old man for six weeks. I kept his books, and did what little I could to make myself useful: carrying about boots and shoes, as if I had never borne his Majesty's commission. He gave me no money, but he fed and lodged me comfortably. The men and boys used to laugh, and call me General, and Lord Cornwallis, and all sorts of nicknames; and old Stiffelkind made a thousand new ones for me. One day I can recollect--one miserable day, as I was polishing on the trees a pair of boots of Mr. Stiffelkind's manufacture--the old gentleman came into the shop, with a lady on his arm. “Vere is Gaptain Stobbs?” said he. “Vere is dat ornament to his Majesty's service?” I came in from the back shop, where I was polishing the boots, with one of them in my hand. “Look, my dear,” says he, “here is an old friend of yours, his Excellency Lort Cornvallis!--Who would have thought such a nobleman vood turn shoeblack? Captain Stobbs, here is your former flame, my dear niece, Miss Grotty. How could you, Magdalen, ever leaf such a lof of a man? Shake hands vid her, Gaptain;--dere, never mind de blacking!” But Miss drew back. “I never shake hands with a SHOEBLACK,” said she, mighty contemptuous. “Bah! my lof, his fingers von't soil you. Don't you know he has just been VITEVASHED?” “I wish, uncle,” says she, “you would not leave me with such low people.” “Low, because he cleans boots? De Gaptain prefers PUMPS to boots I tink--ha! ha!”