"I'm afraid, sir, it's no use our attempting
to go on—but oh, sir, where are all your watch-making
things? You've never been and parted
with them?" He spoke as one would to a
child of its playthings.

"Yes, Jonathan, I have. The fact is, they
were worth money, and I never should have
made anything of it."

"Oh dear, oh dear! What a dreadful business
it is. And your drums?"

"My drums I've got still, only they're not
set up yet. My drums are different, Jonathan;
I'm going to get a living out of them."

"Get a living out of them—only to think!"

"Yes, to be sure, I shall play on them in an
orchestra. At a theatre, you know. You've
been at a theatre?"

"Oh yes, years ago, though, and I remember
thinking that the drums made such a noise that
they spoilt it all. You couldn't hear the rest
of the music for them."

"Ah, the man who played had not sufficient
self-control, probably. You shall come and
hear me perform one of these nights."

"No sir, no, I thank you," said the old man,
sadly. "I shouldn't like to do that at all. The
head partner in Lethwaite and Gamlin—no, no.
But what am I talking about? Lethwaite and
Gamlin won't be in existence soon. Ah dear
me, ah dear me." Jonathan leant his head
forward and covered his face with his hands.

"Come, Jonathan, old man, this won't do, you
know," cried his employer, in a cheery tone.
"Why, it's you that ought to be keeping my
courage up, not I keeping up yours." Our
light-hearted friend was really more sorry for
old Goodrich than he was for himself.

"Yes, sir, yes, that's true enough, that's
quite true; but oh, sir, to think of your watch-making
things being parted with, that's upset
me more than all the rest. And then to hear
you talk about drumming in an orchestra, and
living off muffins—the head partner in Lethwaite
and Gamlin blowing himself out with
muffins—oh, sir, it's too much, it's too much."

"But I wasn't in earnest, you know that
well enough, Jonathan. You can't take a joke."

"Oh yes I can, sir, but this is no joke no
joke at all. These rooms ain't like rooms
belonging to you, sir—no drums, and no watch-making
things; and then where's—where's the
picturs?"

"Well, you needn't ask."

"What, they gone too? Why, there was one
of the red house at Roehampton where your
revered father used to live, and where you
yourself was brought up, sir."

"Oh, I've kept that back, Jonathan."

"Ah well, I'm glad to hear that, at any rate.
An uncommon pretty pictur that was. But law,
sir, this is but a poor place. These chairs are
only covered with cotton damask, and they're
so hard and stiff that you'd think they didn't
want you, to sit down upon them; and here's
this table, it's only veneered, and not firm either,
as these claw-tables seldom are. And that's
your bedroom, is it?" continued the old man,
who was going, candle in hand, round the rooms.
"Ah dear, what a change. Oh dear, oh dear,
no curtains, and an iron bedstead that rattles
like a bunch of keys, the legs of the chairs all
different lengths, and no wardrobe for all your
clothes and things. And as to this chest of
drawers," continued the old man, approaching
one of which all the drawers were more or less
open, "I can see by the look of it that it will
go nigh to break your heart before you've done
with it. Yes, I thought as much," he went on,
after trying some of the drawers and finding
that they would neither open nor shut—"I
thought as much. Those drawers alone are
enough to drive you mad, sir, you that are used
to have things so different."

"The chest of drawers is a trial, Jonathan, I
confess," said Lethwaite, "and the language
into which I have been betrayed already in
connexion with it, would frighten you."

"It's damp weather just now, sir. Perhaps
they won't stick so much when it's dry."

And so they went round the rooms, the old
clerk shaking everything, and poking at everything,
and disparaging everything, as utterly
unfit for the use of the head partner in Lethwaite
and Gamlin's.

"There's neither head partner nor tail partner
now," said Mr. Lethwaite, in reply. "You
forget that, Jonathan."

"No, I don't forget anything about it, sir;
but I do think that you've been a little bit
premature in selling off and parting with all your
things, and getting rid of your rooms in St.
James's-street, and coming down in the world
like this. There was no need for such a sudden
pull up, I do assure you. You've no idea, sir,
how ready every one would have been to help
you—in the City, I mean."

"Better as it is, Jonathan, depend on it. It
would be all very well at first; but I know
human nature, and when they found that there
was no money forthcoming, they would begin
to look disagreeable at us."

"You're mistaken, sir; you are, indeed,"
urged the old man, eagerly." There are 'ouses,
and first-rate 'ouses, too, that would stand by
you well, if it was only for your late father's
sake, and the respect they bore him. Ah, sir,
you don't know the City."

"I know human nature."

"Well, sir, I wouldn't be too sure of that,
if you'll excuse me for saying so. You know
one side of human nature—the selfish side; but
there's another, and one better worth studying,
and that's the generous side. Ah, sir, they'd
trust your father's son in the City."

"Yes; and then, when my father's son, as
you call him, couldn't pay, what would they
say? No, no—my father's' son will pay
everything off as far as his money will go, and then
he'll go and drum in an orchestra, and get more.
And he'll think there's nothing derogatory to
his father's name in earning an honest penny in
that way or any other, provided it is honest."

The old man shook his head, and turned up his
eyes in horror. He was quite unable to get over