I don’t know whether it was that the young monkey knew that I had bound myself to keep him for five years or not; but he certainly did play old gooseberry with my lovely livery in a most shameful way. Positively, he couldn’t have had it more than a week before it was not fit to be seen, all stained in front, and over yellow marks, like a baking dish. I’m sure that, before a month was over his head, the knees of his trousers, and the sleeves of his jacket, right up to the elbows, were as black and shiny with grease as if they had been blackleaded. Over and over again have I said to him, “Really, Wittals, it is enough to break the heart of a saint to see the state your clothes are in! where you can think liveries come from I can’t tell.” And though I was continually making him take the grease spots out with turpentine, still it was only taking a great deal of trouble and turpentine for nothing; for the next day he would be in the same state again, and I should have the urchin going about the house smelling for all the world as if he had been newly painted. As for the antics of that young Wittals, too, I declare they were enough to worry any peaceably disposed woman into Bedlam. Not a thing could he do like a rational creature; but I declare the young Turk was frisking about the house like a parched pea in a pan, and running in and out like a dog at a fair. If he had to go up stairs for anything, instead of walking down again like a Christian, he must needs get astride the mahogany banisters, and slide down like a monkey. Then again, if I sent him out ever such a little way, he would be sure to be gone ten times as long as he need be; for of course he would either be looking into all the picture shops, or go flattening his nose against some pastrycook’s window, eyeing the ladies and gentlemen feasting inside--or else waiting to see some cab-horse get up--or walk miles in the opposite direction to which I had sent him, following some trumpery Punch and Judy, or tumblers--or either stop for hours playing at some game with buttons, or pulling up stones and things with that nasty bit of wet leather tied to the end of a string, which he always kept in his pocket. And when I was wondering what on earth could have become of him, and jumping up and running to the window every second minute to see whether there were any signs of the young vagabond, lo and behold I should see him come galloping along; either flying over every post on his way, or else rattling the street-door key along the rails of every house he passed; or if the turncock had only pulled the flag up in the middle of the road, and turned the water on, there I should be sure to catch sight of him, with his foot right on the hole, squirting the water out on each side of the street, drenching all the little boys that were near, and destroying my bluchers, as I’m a living woman.