and had no truth in them'? Those who could write without a conscience, without an object except that of seeing their own fine words, and filling their own pockets--let them do it: for his part he would have none of it. But his purse was empty, and so was his stomach; and as for asking assistance of his uncle, it was returning like the dog to his vomit. So one day he settled all bills with his last shilling, tied up his remaining clothes in a bundle, and stoutly stepped forth into the street to find a job--to hold a horse, if nothing better offered; when, behold! on the threshold he met Barnakill himself. 'Whither away?' said that strange personage. 'I was just going to call on you.' 'To earn my bread by the labour of my hands. So our fathers all began.' 'And so their sons must all end. Do you want work?' 'Yes, if you have any.' 'Follow me, and carry a trunk home from a shop to my lodgings.' He strode off, with Lancelot after him; entered a mathematical instrument maker's shop in the neighbouring street, and pointed out a heavy corded case to Lancelot, who, with the assistance of the shopman, got it on his shoulders; and trudging forth through the streets after his employer, who walked before him silent and unregarding, felt himself for the first time in his life in the same situation as nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand of Adam's descendants, and discovered somewhat to his satisfaction that when he could once rid his mind of its old superstition that every one was looking at him, it mattered very little whether the burden carried were a deal trunk or a Downing Street despatch-box. His employer's lodgings were in St. Paul's Churchyard. Lancelot set the trunk down inside the door. 'What do you charge?' 'Sixpence.' Barnakill looked him steadily in the face, gave him the sixpence, went in, and shut the door.