"Wanted!" he cried; "why, I had serious thoughts of locking you up, boy, so as to make sure of you to-morrow. Wanted! Yes: I've got you, and I mean to keep you; and if Grimstone says another word--but only let him. Look here: you are very stupid yet, but you'll soon improve; and mind this, come with clean hands and face to-morrow, and clean apron." "Yes, sir," I said, and then I hesitated. "Well, what is it?" "Please, sir, you are Mr Jabez Rowle, are you not?" "Yes, and what then?" he said shortly. "Only, sir, that Mr Peter Rowle, who is a friend of mine, said I might mention his name to you." "Oh, he did, did he? Well, he need not have taken the trouble. There, be off, and mind you are here in good time." This was damping, especially as Mr Jabez Rowle took snuff viciously, and stood staring before him, tapping his box, and muttering angrily, in which state I left him, and made the best of my way home. I was in good time next morning, but, all the same, there sat Mr Jabez Rowle in his glass case waiting for me, and as I entered and said "Good-morning, sir," he just nodded shortly and pointed with the penholder in his hand to a piece of paper. "Go on?" he said; and, taking it up, I began to read. "Not quite so fast, and say _par_ when you come to a fresh paragraph." I read on, making a good many blunders in my anxiety to be right, but, I presume, getting on very well, for Mr Rowle found but little fault, as he seemed to dart his pen down at every error in the slip proofs before him--turned letters, _p's_ where _q's_ should be, and _b's_ for _d's_; _c's_ were often in the place of _e's_; and then there were omissions, repetitions, absence of spaces or points, a score of different little omissions on the compositor's part; and, besides all these, the busy pen made marks and signs that were cabalistic to me. This had gone on about a couple of days, and I was reading away to him what I believed was a prayer in a chancery-bill, when Mr Jabez suddenly laid down his pen, took out his snuff-box, and said, looking me full in the face, "How's Peter?" "I beg your pardon, sir?" "I say, how's Peter?" "How's Peter, sir?" "Don't pretend to be stupid, boy, when you're as sharp as a needle," he cried, tapping the desk angrily with his snuff-box. "Didn't you say you knew my brother Peter?" "Oh yes, sir! he was very kind to me, but I haven't seen him for some weeks. He was quite well then." "Humph! look old?" "He looks very much like you, sir." "Then he does look old. We're very fond of one another, boy, but we; always quarrel; so we never meet. `And your petitioner furthermore sayeth--'" "I beg your pardon, sir." "`And your petitioner furthermore sayeth'--get on, boy: go on." I dashed at the manuscript again, for he had resumed his work, and read on to the end, for he made no further inquiries about his brother.