Thereupon Mr. Dodson returned to the high stool in the left-hand corner, which had been allotted to Mr. William Jordan, Junior. He was engaged in trying to wrap up a novel of portentous length, which had received a somewhat uncompromising quietus at the hands of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker. Mr. Dodson watched his _protégé_ somewhat grimly as he wrestled not very effectually with the leaves of this production and endeavoured to encase them in brown paper and string. “Look here, lunatic, you want it tighter,” said Mr. Dodson, having rendered him who sought to tie the parcel excessively unhappy by his presence. “Slew it round a bit, and turn over the corners like I showed you yesterday. Pa’s been talking about you. He says if you don’t do better you will get the boot.” “I--I b-beg your p-pardon, sir,” stammered the boy. “Don’t be so d----d polite, you lunatic!” The boy had already made the surprising discovery that his mentor possessed two manners, _i. e._ that of public life which approximated to the dignity of the house of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker; and also that of private intercourse, which was apt to be so idiomatic as sometimes not to be intelligible. “If you’d use a little less butter,” said Mr. Dodson, “and show a little more brightness at your work, you and I would get on better. You know what I told you about the Lady Rowena Thingumbob’s accepted prose poem?--well I might never have said anything for all the notice you take. I can’t be always at your elbow. To-morrow you had better bring your nurse.” XVI The boy had now been a week in the service of Messrs. Crumpett and Hawker. And although every minute of the weary hours he passed daily at that dread place, No. 24 Trafalgar Square, had grown already to be one long and unceasing tribulation; although he could not sleep at night for thinking of what the remorseless morrow had in store; although he was nearly debarred altogether from his lifelong intercourse with the ancient authors; although he was so weary with labour and humiliation by the hour of seven that he could scarcely drag his limbs along the streets, he was yet sustained continually by the thought that he was gaining pieces of silver to maintain that sanctuary which awaited him, in the midst of millions upon millions of street-persons, for the purpose of affording a solace for his distress. When the first week’s wages were put into his hand, three dull florins and four worn shillings, the quick tears sprang into his eyes. He placed the coins in his pocket with trembling fingers. There and then he longed to run out into the streets of the great city to shout his joy. Such an achievement as this was too wonderful to realize; the dreams of his wildest avarice had been exceeded. How those pieces of silver burnt in his pocket throughout the interminable hours of the afternoon! How he longed for the hour of seven to strike that he might run back to the little room and lay them before his father!