"You seem to have read a great deal?" observed Lazarus, looking at him. "Oh, faith; my reading has been somewhat desultory," replied Stewart carelessly. "All is fish that comes to my net, and the result is a queer jumble of information; but let us leave this pleasant gossiping, and come down to this matter-of-fact world. How do you think I can better my position?" "I hardly know as yet," replied the Jew, thoughtfully caressing his beard; "but if you want immediate work, I can put you in the way of obtaining employment." "Literary work?" "Unfortunately no--a clerkship in a--a--well, an office." "Ugh! I hate the idea of being cribbed and confined in an office; it's such an artificial existence. However, beggars can't be choosers, so tell me all about it." "My father wants a clerk," said Ezra deliberately, "and if I recommended you I think you could get the position." "Humph! And what is your father's occupation?" "Not a very aristocratic one,--a pawnbroker." Keith stopped short, and looked at his companion in surprise. "I can't imagine you being the son of a pawnbroker," he said in a puzzled tone. "Why not?" asked Ezra serenely. "I must be the son of some one." "Yes; but a pawnbroker, it's so horribly un-poetical. Your father ought to have been a man of letters--of vague speculations and abstruse theories--a modern Rabbi Judah holding disputations about the Talmud." Lazarus shrugged his shoulders, and walked slowly onward, followed by his companion. "My dear lad, the days of Maimonides are past, and we are essentially a money-making race. The curse which Jehovah pronounced on the Jews was the same as that of Midas--they turn everything they touch into gold." "A pleasant enough punishment." "Midas did not find it so; but to resume--my father, Jacob Lazarus, has his shop in Russell Street, so I will speak to him to-day, and if he is agreeable, I will take you with me to-morrow. I've no doubt you'll get the billet, but the wages will be small." "At all events, they will keep body and soul together till I find my El Dorado." "You refer to literary fame, I suppose. How did you first take to writing?" "I think you asked me that question last night," said Keith, smiling, "and I told you I couldn't explain. Like Pope, I lisped in numbers, and the numbers came. I've no doubt they were sufficiently bad. I'm sure I don't know why all authors begin with verse; perhaps it's because rhymes are so easy--fountain suggests mountain, and dove is invariably followed by love." "Have you had any articles accepted since your arrival in Melbourne?"