 CHAPTER 22 A TRIFLE OF MANAGEMENT by Mr. Karker, the manager. Mr. Karker, the manager, sat at his desk, smooth and soft as usual, reading those letters which were reserved for him to open, backing them occasionally with such memoranda and references as their business per port required, and parceling them out into little heaps for distribution through the several departments of the house. The post had come in heavy that morning, and Mr. Karker, the manager, had a good deal to do. The general action of a man so engaged, pausing to look over a bundle of papers in his hand, dealing them round in various portions, taking up another bundle and examining its contents with knitted brows and pursed-out lips, dealing and sorting and pondering by turns, would easily suggest some whimsical resemblance to a player at cards. The face of Mr. Karker, the manager, was in good keeping with such a fancy. It was the face of a man who studied his play warily, who made himself master of all the strong and weak points of the game, who registered the cards in his mind as they fell about him, knew exactly what was on them, what they missed, and what they made, who was crafty to find out what the other players held and who never betrayed his own hand. The letters were in various languages, but Mr. Karker, the manager, read them all. If there had been anything in the offices of Dombie and Son that he could not read, there would have been a card wanting in the pack. He read almost at a glance, and made combinations of one letter with another and one business with another as he went on, adding new matter to the heaps, much as a man would know the cards at sight, and work out their combinations in his mind after they were turned. Something too deep for a partner, and much too deep for an adversary, Mr. Karker, the manager, sat in the rays of the sun that came down, slanting on him through the skylight, playing his game alone. And although it is not among the instincts, wild or domestic, of the cat-tribe to play at cards, feline, from soul to crown, was Mr. Karker, the manager, as he basked in the strip of summer-light and warmth that shone upon his table, and the ground as if they were a crooked dial-plate, and himself the only figure on it. With hair and whiskers deficient in colour at all times, but feebler than common in the rich sunshine, and more like the coat of a sandy tortoise-shell cat, with long nails nicely paired and sharpened, with a natural antipathy to any speck of dirt, which made him pause sometimes and watch the falling motes of dust, and rub them off his smooth white hand or glossy linen. Mr. Karker, the manager, sly of manner, sharp of tooth, soft of foot, watchful of eye, oily of tongue, cruel of heart, nice of habit, sat with the dainty steadfastness and patience at his work, as if you were waiting at a mouse's hole. At length the letters were disposed of, excepting one which he reserved for a particular audience. Having locked the more confidential correspondence in a draw, Mr. Karker, the manager, rang his bell. "'Why do you answer it?' was his reception of his brother. "'The messenger is out, and I am the next,' was the submissive reply. "'You are the next?' muttered the manager. "'Yes. Creditable to me.' There, pointing to the heaps of opened letters, he turned disdainfully away, in his elbow chair, and broke the seal of that one which he held in his hand. "'I am sorry to trouble you, James,' said the brother, gathering them up. "'But—' "'Oh! You have something to say. I knew that. Well—' Mr. Karker, the manager, did not raise his eyes or turn them on his brother, but kept them on his letter, though without opening it. "'Well,' he repeated sharply, "'I am uneasy about Harriet. Harriet who, what Harriet, I know nobody of that name. She is not well, and has changed very much of late. She changed very much a great many years ago,' replied the manager, "'and that is all I have to say. I think, if you would hear me, why should I hear you, brother John?' returned the manager, laying a sarcastic emphasis on those two words, and throwing up his head, but not lifting his eyes. I tell you, Harriet Karker made her choice many years ago between her two brothers. She may repent it, but she must abide by it.' "'Don't mistake me. I do not say she does repent it. It would be black in gratitude in me to hint at such a thing,' returned the other. "'Though believe me, James, I am as sorry for her sacrifice as you.' As I,' exclaimed the manager, "'as I—as sorry for her choice—for what you call her choice—as you are angry at it,' said the junior, "'angry,' repeated the other, with a wide show of his teeth. Miss Pleased, whatever word you like best, you know my meaning. There is no offence in my intention. "'There is offence in everything you do,' replied his brother, glancing at him with a sudden scowl, which in a moment gave place to a wider smile than the last. "'Carry those papers away, if you please. I am busy.' His politeness was so much more cutting than his wrath, that the junior went to the door. But stopping at it, and looking round, he said, "'When Harriet tried in vain to plead for me with you, on your first just indignation and my first disgrace, and when she left you, James, to follow my broken fortunes, and devote herself in her mistaken affection to a ruined brother, because without her he had no one and was lost, she was young and pretty. I think if you could see her now, if you'd go and see her, she would move your admiration and compassion.' The manager inclined his head and showed his teeth, as who should say, in answer to some careless small talk, "'Dear me,' is that the case, but said never a word. "'We thought, in those days, you and I, Moth, that she would marry young and lead a happy and light-hearted life,' pursued the other. "'Oh, if you knew how cheerfully she cast those hopes away, how cheerfully she has gone forward on the path she took, and never once looked back. You never could say again that her name was strange in your ears. Never!' Again the manager inclined his head and showed his teeth, and seemed to say, "'Remarkable indeed. You quite surprised me.' And again he never uttered a word. "'May I go on,' said John Carca mildly. "'On your way,' replied his smiling brother, "'if you will have the goodness.' John Carca, with a sigh, was passing slowly out at the door, when his brother's voice detained him for a moment on the threshold. "'If she has gone, and goes her own way cheerfully,' he said, throwing the still unfolded letter on his desk, and putting his hands firmly in his pockets, "'You may tell her that I goes cheerfully on mine. If she has never once looked back, you may tell her that I have, sometimes, to recall her taking part with you, and that my resolution is no easier to wear away,' he smiled very sweetly here, then marbled, "'I tell her nothing of you. We never speak about you. Once a year on your birthday,' Harriet says always, "'let us remember James by name, and wish him happy.' But we say no more.' "'Tell it, then, if you please,' returned the other, "'to yourself. You can't repeat it too often, as a lesson to you to avoid the subject in speaking to me. I know no Harriet Carca. There is no such person. You may have a sister. Make much of her. I have none.' Mr. Carca the manager took up the letter again, and waved it with a smile of mock courtesy towards the door. Unfolding it as his brother withdrew, and looking darkly after him as he left the room, he once more turned round in his elbow chair, and applied himself to a diligent perusal of its contents. It was in the writing of his great chief, Mr. Donby, and dated from Leamington. Though he was a quick reader of all other letters, Mr. Carca read this slowly, weighing the words as he went, and bringing every tooth in his head to bear upon them. When he had read it through once, he turned it over again, and picked out these passages. I find myself benefited by the change, and am not yet inclined to name any time for my return. I wish Carca he would arrange to come down once and see me here, and let me know how things are going on in person. I omitted to speak to you about young gay. If not gone, per sun and air, or if sun and air still lying in the docks, appoint some other young man, and keep him in the city for the present. I am not decided." Now that's unfortunate, said Mr. Carca, the manager, expanding his mouth, as if it were made of India rubber, for he's far away. Still that passage, which was in a post-script, attracted his attention and his teeth once more. I think, he said, my good friend Captain Cuttle mentioned something about being towed along in the wake of that day. What a pity he's so far away. He refolded the letter, and was sitting trifling with it, standing it longwise and broadwise on his table, and turning it over and over on all sides, doing pretty much the same thing perhaps by its contents. When Mr. Perch, the messenger, knocked softly at the door, and coming in on tiptoe, sending his body at every step, as if it were the delight of his life to bow, laid some papers on the table. Would you please to be engaged, sir? asked Mr. Perch, rubbing his hands, and deferentially putting his head on one side, like a man who felt he had no business to hold it up in such a presence, and would keep it as much out of the way as possible. Who wants me? Why, sir? said Mr. Perch in a soft voice. Really nobody, sir, to speak of it present. Mr. Gill's the ship's instrument maker, sir, as looked in, about a little matter of payment, he says. But I mentioned to him, sir, that he was engaged several deep, several deep. Mr. Perch cuffed once behind his hand, and waited for further orders. Anybody else? Well, sir, said Mr. Perch, I wouldn't if my own self take the liberty of mentioning, sir, that there was anybody else, but that same young lad that was here yesterday, sir, and last week, as been hanging about the place, and it looks, sir, added Mr. Perch, stopping to shut the door, dreadful unbusinesslike, to see him whistling to the sparrows down the court, and making of him answer him. You said he wanted something to do, didn't you, Perch? asked Mr. Karker, leaning back in his chair and looking at that officer. Why, sir? said Mr. Perch, coughing behind his hand again. His expression certainly were that it was in wants of a situation, and that he considered something might be done for him about the docks, being used to fishing with a rod and line. But Mr. Perch shook his head very dubiously indeed. What does he say when he comes? asked Mr. Karker. Indeed, sir, said Mr. Perch, coughing another cough behind his hand, which was always his resource as an expression of humility when nothing else occurred to him. His observation generally ere that he would humbly wish to see one of the gentlemen, and that he wants to earn a living. But you see, sir, added Perch, dropping his voice to a whisper, and turning in the inviolable nature of his confidence, to give the door a thrust with his hand and knee, as if that would shut it any more when it was shut already. It's hardly to be bore, sir, that a common lad like that should come a prowl in here, and saying that his mother nursed our house his young gentleman, and that he hopes our house will give him a chance on that account, I'm sure, sir. Observed Mr. Perch, that although Mrs. Perch was at that time nursing as thriving a little girl, sir, as we have ever took the liberty of adding to our family, I wouldn't have made so free as to drop a hint of her being capable of imparting nourishment, not if it was never so. Mr. Karker grinned at him like a shark, but in an absent, thoughtful manner. Whether, submitted Mr. Perch after short silence and another cough, it mightn't be best for me to tell him that if he was seen here any more he would be given in a custody and to keep to it with respect to bodily fear, said Mr. Perch. I'm so timid myself by nature, sir, and my nerves is so unstung by Mrs. Perch's state that I could take my affidavit easy. Let me see this fellow, Perch, said Mr. Karker, bring him in. Yes, sir, begging your pardon, sir, said Mr. Perch, hesitating at the door, hes rough, sir, in appearance. Never mind if hes there, bring him in. I'll see Mr. Gills directly, ask him to wait. Mr. Perch bowed and shutting the door as precisely and carefully as if he were not coming back for a week, went on his quest among the sparrows in the court. While he was gone, Mr. Karker assumed his favourite attitude before the fireplace, and stood looking at the door, presenting with his underlip tucked into the smile that showed his whole row of upper teeth, a singularly crouching apace. The messenger was not long in returning, followed by a pair of heavy boots that came bumping along the passage like boxes, with the unceremonious words, come along with you, a very unusual form of introduction from his lips. Mr. Perch then ushered into the presence a strong-built lad of fifteen with a round red face, a round sleek head, round black eyes, round limbs, and round body, who, to carry out the general rotundity of his appearance, had a round hat in his hand, without a particle of brim to it. Obedient to a nod from Mr. Karker, Perch had no sooner confronted the visitor with that gentleman than he withdrew. The moment they were face to face alone, Mr. Karker, without a word of preparation, took him by the throat, and shook him until his head seemed loose upon his shoulders. The boy, who in the midst of his astonishment could not help staring wildly at the gentleman with so many white teeth who was choking him, and at the office walls, as though determined if he were choked, that his last look should be at the mysteries for his intrusion to which he was paying such a severe penalty, at last contrived to utter, Cam, sir, you let me alone, will you? Let you alone, said Mr. Karker. What! I have got you, have I? There was no doubt of that, and tightly, too. You dog, said Mr. Karker, through his set jaws. I'll strangle you. Bailo whimpered. Would he, though? Oh, no, he wouldn't. And what was he doing of? And why didn't he strangle somebody of his own size, and not him? But Bailo was quelled by the extraordinary nature of his reception, and as his head became stationary, and he looked the gentleman in the face, or rather in the teeth, and saw him snarling at him, he so far forgot his manhood as to cry. I haven't done nothing, any of you, sir! said Bailo, otherwise Rob, otherwise Grinder, and always Toodle. New young scoundrel, replied Mr. Karker, slowly releasing him, and moving back a step into his favourite position. What do you mean by daring to come here? I didn't mean no harm, sir. Wimpered Rob, putting one hand to his throat, and the knuckles of the other to his eyes. Oh, never come again, sir. I only want it work. Work, young Cain, that you are! affected Mr. Karker, eyeing him narrowly. Ain't you the idlest vagabond in London? The impeachment, while it much affected Mr. Toodle, Jr., attached to his character so justly that he could not say a word in denial. He stood looking at the gentleman, therefore, with a frightened, self-convicted, and remorseful air. As to his looking at him, it may be observed that he was fascinated by Mr. Karker, and never took his round eyes off him for an instant. Ain't you a thief? said Mr. Karker, with his hands behind him in his pockets. No, sir! pleaded Rob. You are! said Mr. Karker. I ain't indeed, sir! went the drop. I never did such a thing as thief, sir, if you'll believe me. I know I'll be in a going wrong, sir, ever since I took to bird-catching and walking-matching. I'm sure a cove might think, said Mr. Toodle, Jr., with a burst of penitence, that singing birds was innocent company, and nobody knows what arm is in them little creatures, and what they bring you down to. They seemed to have brought him down to a velveteen jacket and trousers, very much the worse for wear, a particularly small red waistcoat, like a georgette, and an interval of blue check and the hats before mentioned. I ain't been home twenty times since them birds got their will of me, said Rob. And that's ten months. Out when I go home, when every body's Mr. brought to see be, I wonder, said Byler, blubbering outright and smearing his eyes with his coat cuff, that I haven't been and drowned in me self over and over again. All of which, including his expression of surprise at not having achieved this last scarce performance, the boy said, just as if the teeth of Mr. Carca do it out of him, and he had no power of concealing anything with that battery of attraction in full play. You're a nice young gentleman, said Mr. Carca, shaking his head at him. There's hemp-seed sewn for you, my fine fellow. I'm sure, sir, returns the wretched Byler, blubbering again and again having recourse to his coat cuff. I shouldn't care sometimes if it was growed, too. My misfortunes all began in wagging, sir. But what could I do, except in wag? Accepting what, said Mr. Carca? Wag, sir, wagging from school. Do you mean pretending to go there and not going, said Mr. Carca? Yes, sir, that's wagging, sir. Returned the quantum grinder much affected, always chivvied through the street, sir, when I went there, and pounded when I got there. So I wagged and hid myself, and began it. And you mean to tell me, said Mr. Carca, taking him by the throat again, holding him out at arm's length and surveying him in silence for some moments, that you want a place, do you? I should be thankful to be tried, sir," returned Toodle, Jr., faintly. Mr. Carca the manager pushed him backward into a corner, the boy submitting quietly, hardly venturing to breathe, never once removing his eyes from his face, and rang the bell. Tell Mr. Gills to come here. Mr. Perch was too deferential to express surprise or recognition of the figure in the corner, and Uncle Sol appeared immediately. Mr. Gills, said Carca with a smile, sit down. How do you do? You continue to enjoy your health, I hope? Thank you, sir," returned Uncle Sol, taking out his pocketbook, and handing over some notes as he spoke. Nothing yields me and body but old age. Twenty-five, sir. You are as punk, tool, and exact, Mr. Gills," replied the smiling manager, taking a paper from one of his many drawers and making an endorsement on it, while Uncle Sol looked over him, as one of your own chronometers, quite right. Your son and heir has not been spoken, I find, by the list, sir," said Uncle Sol, with a slight addition to the usual tremor in his voice. Their son and heir has not been spoken, returned Carca. There seems to have been tempestuous weather, Mr. Gills, and she has probably been driven out of her course. She is safe, I trust in heaven," said old Sol. She is safe, I trust in heaven," assented Mr. Carca, in that voiceless manner of his, which made the observant young Toodle tremble again. Mr. Gills, he added aloud, throwing himself back in his chair, you must miss your nephew very much. Uncle Sol, standing by him, shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. Mr. Gills," said Carca, with his soft hand playing round his mouth, and looking up into the instrument maker's face, it would be company to you to have a young fellow in your shop just now, and it would be obliging me if you would give one house-room for the present. No, to be sure," he added quickly in anticipation of what the old man was going to say, and there is not much business doing there, I know, but you can make him clean the place out, polish up the instruments, drudge, Mr. Gills. That's the lad. Sol Gills put down his spectacles from his forward to his eyes, and looked at Toodle, Jr., standing upright in the corner, his head presenting the appearance, which it always did, of having been newly drawn out of a bucket of cold water, his small waistcoat rising and falling quickly in the play of his emotions, and his eyes intently fixed on Mr. Carca without the least reference to his proposed master. Well, you give him house-room, Mr. Gills, said the manager. Old Sol, without being quite enthusiastic on the subject, replied that he was glad of any opportunity, however slight, to oblige Mr. Carca, whose wish on such a point was a command, and that the wooden midshipman would consider himself happy to receive in his birth any visitor of Mr. Carca's selecting. Mr. Carca bared himself to the tops and bottoms of his guns, making the watchful Toodle, Jr. tremble more and more, and acknowledged the instrument-maker's politeness in his most affable manner. I'll dispose of him so, then, Mr. Gills. He answered, rising, and shaking the old man by the hand, until I make up my mind what to do with him, and what he deserves. As I consider myself responsible for him, Mr. Gills, here he smiled a wide smile at Robb, who shook before it. I shall be glad if you'll look sharply after him, and report his behaviour to me. I'll ask a question or two of his parents, as I ride home this afternoon, respectable people, to confirm some particulars in his own account of himself. That done, Mr. Gills, I'll send him round to you tomorrow morning. Goodbye. His smile at parting was so full of teeth that it confused old Sol, and made him vaguely uncomfortable. He went home, thinking of raging seas, foundering ships, drowning men, an ancient bottle of Madeira never brought to light, and other dismal matters. "'Now, boy,' said Mr. Karker, putting his hand on young Toodle's shoulder, and bringing him out into the middle of the room. "'You have heard me,' Robb said. "'Yes, sir.' "'Perhaps you understand,' pursued his patron, "'and that if you ever deceive or play tricks with me, you had better have drowned yourself, indeed, once for all, before you came here. "'There was nothing in any branch of mental acquisition that Robb seemed to understand better than that.' "'If you have lied to me,' said Mr. Karker, "'in anything, never come in my way again. "'If not, you may let me find you waiting for me somewhere near your mother's house this afternoon. I shall leave this at five o'clock, and ride there on horseback. "'Now, give me the address.' Robb repeated it slowly, as Mr. Karker wrote it down. Robb even spelt it over a second time, letter by letter, as if he thought that the omission of a dot or scratch would lead to his destruction. Mr. Karker then handed him out of the room, and Robb, keeping his round eyes fixed upon his patron to the last, vanished for the time being. Mr. Karker the manager did a great deal of business in the course of the day, and showed his teeth upon a great many people. In the office, in the court, in the street, and on change, they glistened and bristled to a terrible extent. Five o'clock arriving, and with it Mr. Karker's bay horse, they got on horseback, and went gleaming up Cheepside. As no one can easily ride fast, even if inclined to do so, through the press and throng of the city at that hour, and as Mr. Karker was not inclined, he went leisurely along, picking his way among the carts and carriages, avoiding whenever he could the wetter and more dirty places in the over-watered road, and taking infinite pains to keep himself and his steed clean. Glancing at the passer's bay, while he was thus ambly on his way, he suddenly encountered the round eyes of the sleek-headed Robb, intently fixed upon his face, as if they had never been taken off, while the boy himself, with a pocket handkerchief twisted up like a speckled eel, and girded round his waist, made a very conspicuous demonstration of being prepared to attend upon him at whatever pace he might think proper to go. This attention, however flattering, being one of an unusual kind, and attracting some notice from the other passengers, Mr. Karker took advantage of a clearer thoroughfare and a cleaner road, and broke into a trot. Robb immediately did the same. Mr. Karker presently tried to cantor. Robb was still in attendance. Then a short gallop. It was all one to the boy. Whenever Mr. Karker turned his eyes to that side of the road, he still saw Toodle Jr. holding his course, apparently without distress, and working himself along by the elbows after the most approved manner a professional gentleman who get over the ground for wagers. Ridiculous as this attendance was, it was a sign of an influence established over the boy, and therefore Mr. Karker, affecting not to notice it, rode away into the neighbourhood of Mr. Toodle's house. On his slackening his pace here, Robb appeared before him to point out the turnings, and when he called to a man at a neighbouring gateway to hold his horse, pending his visit to the buildings that had succeeded Staggs's Gardens, Robb dutifully held the syrup while the manager dismounted. Now, sir, said Mr. Karker, taking him by the shoulder, come along. The prodigal son was evidently nervous of visiting the parental abode. Mr. Karker pushing him on before. He had nothing for it, but to open the right door, and suffer himself to be walked into the midst of his brothers and sisters, mustered an overwhelming force round the family tea-table. At the sight of the prodigal in the grasp of a stranger, these tender relations united in a general howl, which smote upon the prodigal's breast so sharply, when he saw his mother stand up among them, pale and trembling, with the baby in her arms, that he lent his own voice to the chorus. Nothing doubting now that the stranger, if not Mr. Ketch, in person, was one of that company, the whole of the young family wailed the louder, while its more infantile members, unable to control the transports of emotion appertaining to their time of life, threw themselves on their backs like young birds, when terrified by a hawk, and kicked violently. At length, poor Polly, making herself audible, said with quivering lips, Oh Rob, my poor boy, what have you done at last? Nothing, mother! cried Rob in a piteous voice. Ask the gentleman. Don't be alarmed, said Mr. Karker. I want to do him good. At this announcement Polly, who had not cried yet, began to do so. The elder toodles, who appeared to have been meditating a rescue, unclenched their fists. The younger toodles clustered round their mother's gown, and peeped from under their own chubby arms at their Desperado brother and his unknown friend. Everybody blessed the gentleman with the beautiful teeth, who wanted to do good. And this fellow, said Mr. Karker to Polly, giving him a gentle shake, Is your son, eh, mum? Yes, sir, saw Polly with a curtsy. Yes, sir. A bad son, I'm afraid, said Mr. Karker. Never a bad son to me, sir, returned Polly. To whom, then, demanded Mr. Karker. He has been a little while, sir, returned Polly, checking the baby, who was making convulsive efforts with his arms and legs to launch himself on Baila, through the ambient air, and has gone with wrong companions. But I hope he has seen a mystery here of that, sir, and will do well again. Mr. Karker looked at Polly, and the clean room, and the clean children, and the simple, toodle face, combined of father and mother, that was reflected and repeated everywhere about him, and seemed to have achieved the real purpose of his visit. Your husband, I take it, is not at home, he said. No, sir, replied Polly, he's down the line at present. The prodigal Robb seemed very much relieved to hear it, though still in the absorption of all his faculties and his patron, he hardly took his eyes from Mr. Karker's face, unless for a moment at a time to steal a sorrowful glance at his mother. Then, said Mr. Karker, I'll tell you how I have stumbled on this boy of yours, and who I am, and what I am going to do for him. This Mr. Karker did, in his own way, saying that he at first intended to have accumulated nameless terrors on his presumptuous head for coming to the whereabouts of Donby and Son. That he had relented in consideration of his youth, his professed contrition, and his friends. That he was afraid he took a rash step in doing anything for the boy, and one that might expose him to the censure of the prudent, but that he did it of himself and for himself, and risked the consequences single-handed, and that his mother's past connection with Mr. Donby's family had nothing to do with it, and that Mr. Donby had nothing to do with it, but that he, Mr. Karker, was the be-all and the end-all of this business. Taking great credit to himself for his goodness, and receiving no less from all the family than present, Mr. Karker signified, indirectly, but still pretty plainly, that Robb's implicit fidelity, attachment, and devotion were for evermore his due, and the least homage he could receive. And with this great truth Robb himself was so impressed, that, standing gazing on his patron with tears rolling down his cheeks, he nodded his shiny head until it seemed almost as loose as it had done under the same patron's hands that morning. Polly, who had passed Heaven knows how many sleepless nights on account of this, had dissipated first-born, had had not seen him for weeks and weeks, could have almost kneeled to Mr. Karker the manager, as to a good spirit, in spite of his teeth. But Mr. Karker, rising to depart, she only thanked him with her mother's prayers and blessings, thanks so rich when paid out of the heart's mint, especially for any service Mr. Karker had rendered that he might have given back a large amount of change, and yet been overpaid. As that gentleman made his way among the crowding children to the door, Robb retreated on his mother and took her and the baby in the same repentant hug. Oh, try our dear mother now, upon my soul our will, said Robb. Oh, do my dear boy, I'm sure you will for our sakes in your own, cried Polly, kissing him, but you're coming back to speak to me when you've seen the gentleman away. I don't know, mother. Robb hesitated and looked down. Father, when's he coming home? Not till two o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll come back, mother dear, cried Robb, and passing through the shrill cry of his brothers and sisters in reception of this promise, he followed Mr. Karker out. What? said Mr. Karker, who had heard this? You have a bad father, have you? No, sir, returned Robb amazed. There ain't a better nor a kinder father going than mine is. Why don't you want to see him, then? inquired his patron. There is such a difference between a father and a mother, sir, said Robb, after faltering for a moment. He couldn't hardly believe yet that I was going to do better, though I know he'd try to. But a mother, she always believes what's good to her. At least I know my mother does. God bless her. Mr. Karker's mouth expanded, but he said no more until he was mounted on his horse and had dismissed the man who held it, when, looking down from the saddle steadily into the attentive and watchful face of the boy, he said, You'll come to me tomorrow morning, and you shall be shown where that old gentleman lives. That old gentleman was with me this morning. Where you are going, as you heard me say? Yes, sir, returned Robb. I have a great interest in that old gentleman, and in serving him you serve me, boy. Do you understand? Well, he added, interrupting him, for he saw his round face brighten when he was told that. I see you do. I want to know all about that old gentleman, and how he goes on from day to day, for I am anxious to be of service to him, and especially who comes there to see him. Now you understand? Robb nodded at his steadfast face and said, Yes, sir! again. I should like to know that he has friends who are attentive to him, and that they don't desert him, for he lives very much alone now, poor fellow, but that they are fond of him and of his nephew who has gone abroad. There's a very young lady who may perhaps come to see him. I want particularly to know all about her. Oh, take care, sir! said the boy. And take care! returned his patron, bending forward to advance his grinning face closer to the boys, and pat him on the shoulder with the handle of his whip. Take care! you talk about affairs of mine to nobody but me. To nobody in the water! replied Robb, shaking his head. Neither there! said Mr. Carter, pointing to the place they had just left, nor anywhere else. I'll try how true and grateful you can be. I'll prove you. Making this, by his display of teeth and by the action of his head, as much a threat as a promise, he turned from Robb's eyes, which were nailed upon him as if he had won the boy by a charm, body and soul, and rode away. But again becoming conscious, after trotting a short distance, that his devoted henchman, Gert as before, was yielding him the same attendance to the great amusement of sundry spectators, he reigned up and ordered him off. To ensure his obedience, he turned in the saddle and watched him as he retired. It was curious to see that even then Robb could not keep his eyes wholly averted from his patron's face, but constantly turning and turning again to look after him, involved himself in a tempest of buffettings and jostlings from the other passengers in the street, of which, in the pursuit of the one paramount idea, he was perfectly heedless. Mr. Karka, the manager, rode on at a foot pace, with the easy air of one who had performed all the business of the day in a satisfactory manner, and got it comfortably off his mind. Complacent and affable as man could be, Mr. Karka picked his way along the streets and hummed a soft tune as he went. He seemed to purr. He was so glad. And in some sort, Mr. Karka, in his fancy, basked upon a hearth too. Cold up snugly at certain feet, he was ready for a spring, for a tear, or for a scratch, or for a velvet touch, as the humour took him and occasion served. Was there any bird in a cage that came in for a share of his regards? A very young lady thought Mr. Karka the manager through his song. I, when I saw her last, she was a little child. With dark eyes and hair I recollect, and a good face, a very good face. I dare say she's pretty. More affable and pleasant yet, and humming his song until his many teeth vibrated to it, Mr. Karka picked his way along, and turned it last into the shady street where Mr. Dombey's house stood. He had been so busy winding webs round good faces, and obscuring them with meshes, that he hardly thought of being at this point of his ride, until, glancing down the cold perspective of tall houses, he reigned in his horse quickly within a few yards of the door. But to explain why Mr. Karka reigned in his horse quickly, and what he looked at in no small surprise, a few digressive words are necessary. Mr. Toots emancipated from the blimber thralldom, and coming into the possession of a certain portion of his worldly wealth, which, as he had been wont during his last half year's probation to communicate to Mr. Feder every evening as a new discovery, the executors couldn't keep him out of, had applied himself with great diligence to the science of life. Fired with the noble emulation to pursue a brilliant and distinguished career, Mr. Toots had furnished a choice set of apartments, had established among them a sporting bower, embellished with the portraits of winning horses, in which he took no particle of interest, and a divan which made him poorly. In this delicious abode, Mr. Toots devoted himself to the cultivation of those gentle arts which refine and humanize existence. His chief instructor in which was an interesting character, called the Game Chicken, who was always to be heard of at the bar of the Black Badger, wore a shaggy white greatcoat in the warmest weather, and knocked Mr. Toots about the head three times a week for the small consideration of ten and six per visit. The Game Chicken, who was quite the Apollo of Mr. Toots' pantheon, had introduced to him a marker who taught billiards, a lifeguard who taught fencing, a jobmaster who taught riding, a Cornish gentleman who was up to anything in the athletic line, and two or three other friends connected no less intimately with the fine arts. Under whose auspices Mr. Toots could hardly fail to improve a pace, and under whose tuition he went to work. But however it came about, it came to pass, even while these gentlemen had the gloss of novelty upon them, that Mr. Toots felt, he didn't know how, unsettled and uneasy. There were husks in his corn that even Game Chickens couldn't pick up, gloomy giants in his leisure that even Game Chickens couldn't knock down. Nothing seemed to do Mr. Toots so much good, as incessantly leaving cards at Mr. Dombie's door. No tax-gatherer in the British Dominions, that widespread territory on which the sun never sets, and where the tax-gatherer never goes to bed, was more regular and persevering in his calls than Mr. Toots. Mr. Toots never went upstairs, and always performed the same ceremonies richly dressed for the purpose at the hall door. Oh, good-morning, would be Mr. Toots's first remark to the servant. For Mr. Dombie would be Mr. Toots's next remark, as he handed in a card. For Miss Dombie would be his next, as he handed in another. Mr. Toots would then turn around as if to go away, but the man knew him by this time, and knew he wouldn't. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Toots would say, as if thought had suddenly descended on him, is the young woman at home? The man would rather think she was, but wouldn't quite know. Then he would ring a bell that rang upstairs, and would look up the staircase, and would say, yes, she was at home, and was coming down. Then Miss Nipper would appear, and the man would retire. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Toots would say, as a chuckle and a blush? Susan would thank him, and say she was very well. How's Diogenes going on, would be Mr. Toots's second interrogation. Very well indeed. Miss Florence was fonder and fonder of him every day. Mr. Toots was sure to hail this with a burst of chuckles, like the opening of a bottle of some effervescent beverage. Miss Florence is quite well, sir, Susan would add. Oh, it's of no consequence, thank ye, was the invariable reply of Mr. Toots. And when he had said so, he always went away, very fast. Now it is certain that Mr. Toots had a filmy something in his mind, which led him to conclude that if he could aspire successfully in the fullness of time to the hand of Florence, he would be fortunate and blessed. It is certain that Mr. Toots, by some remote and roundabout road, had got to that point, and at there he made a stand. His heart was wounded. He was touched. He was in love. He had made a desperate attempt one night, and had set up all night for the purpose to write an acrostic on Florence, which affected him to tears in the conception. But he never proceeded in the execution further than the words, for when I gaze, the flow of imagination in which he had previously written down the initial letters of the other seven lines, deserting him at that point. Beyond devising that very artful and politic measure of leaving a card for Mr. Donby daily, the brain of Mr. Toots had not worked much in reference to the subject that held his feelings prisoner. But deep consideration at length assured Mr. Toots that an important step to gain was the conciliation of Ms. Susan Nipper, preparatory to giving her some inkling of his state of mind. A little light and playful gallantry towards this lady seemed the means to employ in that early chapter of the history for winning her to his interests. Not being able to quite make up his mind about it, he consulted the chicken, without taking that gentleman into his confidence, merely informing him that a friend in Yorkshire had written to him, Mr. Toots, for his opinion on such a question. The chicken replying that his opinion always was, go in and win, and further, when your man's before you, and your work cut out, go in and do it. Mr. Toots considered this a figurative way of supporting his own view of the case, and heroically resolved to kiss Ms. Nipper next day. Upon the next day, therefore, Mr. Toots, putting into requisition some of the greatest marbles that Burgess and Co. had ever turned out, went off to Mr. Dombie's upon this design. But his heart failed him so much, as he approached the scene of action, that, although he arrived on the ground at three o'clock in the afternoon, it was six before he knocked at the door. Everything happened as usual, down to the point where Susan said her young mistress was well, and Mr. Toots said it was of no consequence. To her amazement, Mr. Toots, instead of going off like a rocket, after that observation, lingered and chuckled. Perhaps he'd like to walk upstairs, sir, said Susan. Well, I think I will come in, said Mr. Toots. But instead of walking upstairs, the bold Toots made an awkward plunge at Susan when the door was shut, and embracing that fair creature, kissed her on the cheek. Oh, go along with you! cried Susan. All right, tear your eyes out. Just another, said Mr. Toots. Go along with you! exclaimed Susan, giving him a push. Innocence like you, too, begin next. Go along, sir. Susan was not in any serious strait, for she could hardly speak for laughing. But diogenes on the staircase, hearing a rustling against the wall and a shuffling of feet, and seeing through the benisters that there was some contention going on, and foreign invasion in the house, formed a different opinion, dashed down to the rescue, and in the twinkling of an eye had Mr. Toots by the leg. Susan screamed, laughed, opened the street door, and ran downstairs. The bold Toots tumbled, staggering out into the street, with diogenes holding on to one leg of his pantaloons, as if Burgess and Co were his cooks, and had provided that dainty morsel for his holiday entertainment. Diogenes shaken off, rolled over and over in the dust, got up again, whirled round the giddy Toots, and snapped at him, and all this turmoil, Mr. Karka, raining up his horse and sitting a little at a distance, saw to his amazement, Issue from the stately house of Mr. Donby. Mr. Karka remained watching the discomforted Toots, when diogenes was called in, and the door shut. And while that gentleman, taking refuge in a doorway near at hand, bound up the torn leg of his pantaloons with a costly silk handkerchief, that had formed part of his expensive outfit for the advent. I beg your pardon, sir, for Mr. Karka riding up with his most propitiatory smile. I hope you are not hurt. Who knew, thank you, replied Mr. Toots, raising his flushed face. It's of no consequence. Mr. Toots would have signified, if he could, that he liked it very much. If the dog's teeth have entered the leg, sir, began Karka, by the display of his own. Who knew, thank you, said Mr. Toots. It all quite right. It's very comfortable. Thank you. I have the pleasure of knowing, Mr. Donby, observed Karka. Of you, though, rejoined the blushing Toots. And you will allow me, perhaps, to apologize in his absence, said Mr. Karka, taking off his hat. For such a misadventure, and to wonder how it can possibly have happened. Mr. Toots is so much gratified by this politeness, and the lucky chance of making friends with a friend of Mr. Donby, that he pulls out his card case, which he never loses an opportunity of using, and hands his name and address to Mr. Karka, who responds to that courtesy by giving him his own, and with that they part. As Mr. Karka picks his way so softly past the house, looking up at the windows and trying to make out the pensive face behind the curtain, looking at the children opposite, the rough head of diogenes came clambering up close by it, and the dog, regardless of all soothing, barks and growls, and makes at him from that height, as if he would spring down and tear him limb from limb. Well-spoken die, so near your mistress. Another, and another with your head up, your eyes flashing in your vexed mouth worrying itself for one of him. Another, as he picks his way along. You have a good scent die. Cats, boy, cats. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Of Donby and Son This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Donby and Son by Charles Dickens. Chapter 23 Florence Solitary and the Midshipman Mysterious Florence lived alone in the great dreary house, and day succeeded day, and still she lived alone, and the blank walls looked down upon her with a vacant stare, as if they had a gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and beauty into stone. No magic dwelling-place in magic's story, shut up in the heart of a thick wood, was ever more solitary and deserted to the fancy, than was her father's mention in its grim reality, as it stood lowering on the street. Always by night, when lights were shining from neighbouring windows, a blot upon its scanty brightness, always by day a frown upon its never smiling face. There were not two dragon sentries keeping ward before the gate of this above, as in magic legend are usually found on duty over the wronged innocence imprisoned, but besides a glouring visage, with its thin lips parted wickedly, at surveyed all comers from above the archway of the door, there was a monstrous fantasy of rusty iron, curling and twisting like a petrifaction of an arbor over threshold, butting in spikes and corkscrew points, and bearing one on either side two ominous extinguishers that seem to say, who enter here, leave light behind. There were no talismanic characters engraven on the portal, but the house was now so neglected in appearance that boys chalked the railings in the pavement, particularly round the corner where the side wall was, and drew ghosts on the stable door, and being sometimes driven off by Mr. Talinson, made portraits of him in return with his ears growing out horizontally from under his hat. Noise ceased to be within the shadow of the roof. The brass band that came into the street once a week in the morning never braided a note in at those windows, but all such company down to a poor little piping organ of weak intellect, with an imbecile party of automaton dancers, waltzing in and out at folding doors, fell off from it with one accord, and shunned it as a hopeless place. The spell upon it was more wasting than the spell that used to set enchanted houses sleeping once upon a time, but left their waking freshness unimpaired. The passive desolation of disuse was everywhere, silently manifest about it. Within doors, curtains, drooping heavily, lost their old folds and shapes, and hung like cumbress-polls. Hecketomes of furniture still piled and covered up, shrunk like imprisoned and forgotten men, and changed insensibly. Mirrors were dim as with the breath of years. Patterns of carpets faded and became perplexed and faint, like the memory of those years trifling incidents. Boards, starting at unwonted footsteps, creaked and shook. Keys rusted in the locks of doors. Damp started on the walls, and as the stains came out, the pictures seemed to go in and secrete themselves. Mildew and mould began to lurk in closets. Fungus trees grew in corners of the cellars. Dust accumulated. Nobody knew whence nor how. Spiders, moths, and grubs were heard of every day. An exploratory black beetle now and then was found immovable upon the stairs, or in an upper room, as wondering how he got there. Rats began to squeak and scuffle in the night-time, through dark galleries they mined behind the panelling. The dreary magnificence of the stagerooms, seen imperfectly by the doubtful light admitted through closed shutters, would have answered well enough for an enchanted abode. Such as the tarnished pores of gilded lines stealthily put out from beneath their wrappers, the marble liniments of busts on pedestals, fearfully revealing themselves through veils, the clocks that never told the time, or, if wound up by any chance, told it wrong, and struck unearthly numbers, which are not upon the dial. The accidental tinklings among the pendant lusters more startling than alarm bells, the soft and sounds and laggard air that made their way among these objects, and a phantom crowd of others shrouded and hooded and made spectral of shape. But besides, there was the great staircase, where the Lord of the Place so rarely set his foot, and by which his little child had gone up to heaven. There were other staircases and passages where no one went for weeks together. There were two closed rooms associated with dead members of the family, and with whispered recollections of them, and to all the house at Florence there was a gentle figure moving through the solitude and plume that gave to every lifeless thing a touch of present human interest and wonder. For Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day, and still she lived alone. And the cold walls looked down upon her with a vacant stare, as if they had a gorgon-like mind to stare her youth and beauty into stone. The grass began to grow upon the roof, and in the crevices of the basement pavement. A scaly, crumbling vegetation sprouted round the window-sills. Fragments of mortar lost their hold upon the insides of the unused chimneys, and came dropping down. The two trees, with the smoky trunks, were blighted high up, and the withered branches domineered above the leaves. Through the whole building white had turned yellow, yellow nearly black, and since the time when the poor lady died it had slowly become a dark gap in the long monotonous street. But Florence bloomed there, like the king's fair daughter in the story. Her books, her music, and her daily teachers were her only real companions, Susan Nipper and Iogenes accepted. Of whom the former, in her attendance on the studies of her young mistress, began to grow quite learned herself, while the latter, softened possibly by the same influencers, would lay his head upon the window-edge, and placidly open and shut his eyes upon the street, all through a summer morning, sometimes picking up his head to look with great significance after some noisy dog in a cart, who was barking his way along, and sometimes with an exasperated and unaccountable recollection of his supposed enemy in the neighborhood, rushing to the door, whence, after a deafening disturbance, he would come jogging back with a ridiculous complacency that belonged to him, and lay his jaw upon the window-edge again, with the air of a dog who had done a public service. So Florence lived in her wilderness of a home, within the circle of her innocent pursuits and thoughts, and nothing harmed her. She could go down to her father's rooms now, and think of him, and suffer her loving heart humbly to approach him, without fear of repulse. She could look upon the objects that had surrounded him in his sorrow, and could nestle near his chair, and not dread the glance that she so well remembered. She could render him such little tokens of her duty and service, as putting everything in order for him with her own hands, binding little nose-gaze for table, changing them as one by one they withered, and he did not come back, preparing something for him every day, and leaving some tibid mark of her presence near his usual seat. Today it was a little painted stand for his watch. Tomorrow she would be afraid to leave it, and would substitute some other trifle of her making not so lightly to attract his eye. Waking in the night, perhaps, she would tremble at the thought of his coming home, and angrily rejecting it, and would hurry down with slippered feet, and quickly beating heart, and bring it away. At another time she would only lay her face upon his desk, and leave a kiss there, and a tear. Still no one knew of this, unless the household found it out when she was not there, and they all held Mr. Domby's rooms in awe. It was as deep a secret in her breast as what had gone before it. Florence stole into those rooms at twilight, early in the morning, and at times when meals were served downstairs. And although they were in every nuke, the better, and the brighter for her care, she entered and passed out as quietly as any sunbeam, opting that she left her light behind. Shadowy Company attended Florence up and down the echoing house, and sat with her in the dismantled rooms, as if her life were an enchanted vision. There arose out of her solitude ministering thoughts that made it fanciful and unreal. She imagined so often what her life would have been if her father could have loved her, and she had been a favourite child. At some times, for the moment, she almost believed it was so. And, born on by the current of that pensive fiction, seemed to remember how they had watched her brother in his grave together, how they had freely shared his heart between them, how they were united in the dear remembrance of him, how they often spoke about him yet, and her kind father, looking at her gently, told her of their common hope and trust in God. At other times she pictured to herself her mother yet alive, and, oh, the happiness of falling on her neck, and clinging to her with the love and confidence of all her soul, and, oh, the desolation of the solitary house again, with evening coming on, and no one there. But there was one thought scarcely shaped out to herself, yet fervent and strong within her, that upheld Florence when she strove and filled her true young heart, so sorely tried, with constancy of purpose. Into her mind, as into all others contending but the great affliction of our mortal nature, they had stolen solemn wonderings and hopes, a rising in the dim world beyond the present life, and murmuring, like faint music, of recognition in the far-off land between her brother and her mother, of some present consciousness in both of her, some love and commiseration for her, and some knowledge of her as she went her way upon the earth. It was a soothing consolation to Florence to give shelter to these thoughts, until one day, it was soon after she had last seen her father in his own room late at night, the fancy came upon her that, in weeping for his alienated heart, she might stir the spirits of the dead against him. Wild, weak, childish as it may have been to think so, and to tremble at the half-formed thought, it was the impulse of her loving nature, and from that hour Florence strove against the cruel wound in her breast, and tried to think of him whose hand had made it, only with hope. Her father did not know, she held to it from that time, how much she loved him. She was very young, and had no mother, and had never learned, by some fault or misfortune, how to express to him that she loved him. She would be patient, and would try to gain that art in time, and win him to a better knowledge of his only child. This became the purpose of her life. The morning sun shone down upon the faded house, and found the resolution bright and fresh within the bosom of its solitary mistress. Through all the duties of the day it animated her, for Florence hoped that the more she knew, and the more accomplished she became, the more glad he would be when he came to know and like her. Sometimes she wandered with a swelling heart and rising tear, whether she was proficient enough in anything to surprise him when they should become companions. Sometimes she tried to think if there were any kind of knowledge that would bespeak his interest more readily than another. Always, at her books, her music, and her work, in her morning walks, and in her nightly prayers, she had her engrossing aim and view. Strange study for a child, to learn the road to a hard parent's heart. There were many careless loungers through the street, as the summer evening deepened into night, who glanced across the road at the somber house, and saw the youthful figure at the window, such a contrast to it, looking upward at the stars as they began to shine, who would have slept the worse if they had known on what design she mused so steady. The reputation of the mansion as a haunted house would not have been the gayer with some humble dwellers elsewhere, who were struck by its external gloom in passing and repassing on their daily applications, and so named it, if they could have read its story in the darkening face. But Florence held her sacred purpose, unsuspected and unaided, and studied only how to bring her father to the understanding that she loved him, and made no appeal against him in any wandering thought. Thus Florence lived alone in the deserted house, and day succeeded day, and still she lived alone, and the monotonous walls looked down upon her with a stare, as if they had a gorgon-like intent to stare her youth and beauty into stone. Susan Nipper stood opposite to her young mistress one morning, as she folded and sealed a note she had been writing, and showed in her looks an approving knowledge of its contents. Better late than never, dear Miss Floyd, said Susan, and I do say even a visit to them old skelters will be a godsend. It is very good at Sir Barnet and Lady Sketl, Susan—returned Florence, with the mild correction of that young lady's familiar mention of the family in question—to repeat their invitation so kindly. Miss Nipper, who was perhaps the most thoroughgoing partisan on the face of the earth, and who carried her partisanship into all matters great or small, and perpetually waged war with it against society, screwed up her lips and shook her head as a protest against any recognition of disinterestedness in the Sketl'ss, and a plea in bar that they would have valuable consideration for their kindness in the company of Florence. They know what they're about, if ever people did, murmured Miss Nipper, drawing in her breath. Oh, trust them, Sketl'ss for that! I'm not very anxious to go to Fulham, Susan, I confess, said Florence thoughtfully, but it will be right to go. I think it will be better—much better—interpose Susan with another emphatic shake of her head. And so, said Florence, though I would prefer to have gone when there was no one there, instead of in this vacation time, when it seems there are some young people staying in the house, I have thankfully said yes. For which I say, Miss Floyd, I'll be joyful, returned Susan. This last ejaculation, with which Miss Nipper frequently round up a sentence, at about that epoch of time, was supposed below the level of the hall to have a general reference to Mr. Donby, and to be expresses our yearning in Miss Nipper to favour that gentleman with a piece of her mind. But she never explained it, and it had, in consequence, the charm of mystery, in addition to the advantage of the sharpest expression. How long it is before we have any news of Walter Susan? observed Florence after a moment's silence. Long indeed, Miss Floyd! replied her maid. And Perch said, when he came just now to see for letters, what signifies what he says? exclaimed Susan, reddening and breaking off. Much he knows about it. Florence raised her eyes quickly, and a flush overspread her face. If I hadn't, said Susan Nipper, evidently struggling with some latent anxiety and alarm, and looking full at her young mistress, while endeavouring to work herself into a state of resentment with the unoffending Mr. Perch's image. If I hadn't more manliness and that insipidest of his sex, I'd never take pride in my hair again, but turn it up behind my ears and wear coarse caps, without a bit of border, until death released me from my insignificance. I may not be at Amazon, Miss Floyd, and wouldn't so demean myself with such disfigurement, but anyways, I'm not going to give her up, I hope. Give up what? cried Florence with a face of terror. Why, nothing, Miss? said Susan. Good gracious, nothing. It's only that wet-curled paper of a man Perch that anyone might almost make away with, with a touch, and really it would be a blessed event for all parties if someone would take pity on him and would have the goodness. Does he give up the ship, Susan? inquired Florence, very pale. Now, Miss! returned Susan. I should like to see him make so bold as to do it to my face. Oh no, Miss! But he goes on about some bothering ginger that Mr. Walter was to send to Mrs. Perch, and shakes his dismal head and says he hopes it may be coming. Anyhow, he says it can't come now in time for the intended occasion, but may do for next. Which really, said Miss Nipper, with aggravated scorn, puts me out of patience with the man, for though I may bear a great deal, I am not a camel. Neither am I, added Susan, after a moment's consideration, if I know myself, a drama-dairy-naver. What else does he say, Susan? inquired Florence earnestly. Won't you tell me? As if I wouldn't tell you anything, Miss Floor, and everything, said Susan. Why nothing, Miss? He says that there begins to be a general talk about the ship, and they have never had a ship on that voyage off so long unheard of, and the captain's wife was at the office yesterday and seemed a little put out about it. But any one could say that. We knew nearly that before. I must visit Walter's uncle, said Florence hurriedly, before I leave home. I will go and see him this morning. Let us walk there directly, Susan. Miss Nipper having nothing to urge against the proposal, but being perfectly acquiescent, they were soon equipped and in the streets, and on their way towards the little midshipman. The state of mind in which poor Walter had gone to Captain Cuttles, on the day when Brogley, the broker, came into possession, and when there seemed to him to be in execution in the very steeples, was pretty much the same as that in which Florence now took her way to Uncle Sol's, with this difference, that Florence suffered the added pain of thinking that she had been, perhaps, the innocent occasion of involving Walter in peril, and all to whom he was dear, herself included, in an agony of suspense. For the rest, uncertainty and danger, seemed written upon everything. The weathercocks on spires and housetops were mysterious, with hints of stormy wind, and pointed, like so many ghostly fingers, out to dangerous seas, where fragments of great wrecks were drifting, perhaps, and helpless men were rocked upon them into a sleep as deep as the unfathomable waters. When Florence came into the city, and passed gentlemen who were talking together, she dreaded to hear them speaking of the ship, and saying it was lost. Pictures and prints of vessels fighting with the rolling waves filled her with alarm. The smoke and clouds, though moving gently, moved too fast for her apprehensions, and made her fear there was a tempest-blowing at that moment on the ocean. Susan Nipper may or may not have been affected similarly, but having her attention much engaged in struggles with boys, whenever there was any press of people, for between that grade of humankind and herself, there was some natural animosity that invariably broke out whenever they came together. It would seem that she had not much leisure on the road for intellectual operations. Arriving in good time, abreast of the wooden midshipman, on the opposite side of the way, and waiting for an opportunity to cross the street. They were a little surprised at first to see, at the instrument-maker's door, a round-headed lad with his chubby face addressed towards the sky, who, as they looked at him, suddenly thrust into his capacious mouth two fingers of each hand, and with the assistance of that machinery whistled with the astonishing shrewness to some pigeons at a considerable elevation in the air. Mrs. Richards, eldest miss, said Susan, and the worried of Mrs. Richards' life. As Polly had been to tell Florence of the resuscitated prospects of her son and heir, Florence was prepared for the meeting. So, a favourable moment presenting itself, they both hastened across without any further contemplation of Mrs. Richards' bane. That sporting character, unconscious of their approach, again whistled with his utmost might, and then yelled in a rapture of excitement, STRIZE! WHIP! STRIZE! Which identification had such an effect upon the conscious stricken pigeons, that instead of going direct to some town in the north of England, as appeared to have been their original intention, they began to wheel and falter, whereupon Mrs. Richards' first-born pierced them with another whistle, and again yelled in a voice that rose above the turmoil of the streets, STRIZE! WHIP! STRIZE! From this transport he was abruptly recalled to terrestrial objects by a poke from Miss Nipper, which sent him into the shop. This is the way you show your penitence, when Mrs. Richards has been fretting for you months and months, said Susan, following the poke. Where's Mr. Gilles? Rob, who smooths his first rebellious glance at Miss Nipper when he saw Florence following, put his knuckles to his hair in honour of the latter, and said to the former that Mr. Gilles was out. Fetch him home, said Miss Nipper with authority, and say that my young lady's ear. I don't know where he's gone, said Rob. Is that your penitence? cried Susan with stinging sharpness. Why, how can I go and fetch him, when I don't know where to go? whimpered the bated Rob. How can you be so unreasonable? Did Mr. Gilles say, when he should be home? asked Florence. Yes, Miss! replied Rob with another application of his knuckles to his hair. He said he should be home early in the afternoon, in about a couple of hours from now, Miss. Is he very anxious about his nephew? inquired Susan. Yes, Miss! returned Rob, preferring to address himself to Florence, and slighting Nipper. I should say he was, very much so. He ain't in doors, Miss, not a quarter of an hour together. He can't settle in one place five minutes. He goes about like a—just like a stray! Said Rob, stooping to get a glimpse of the pigeons through the window, and checking himself with his fingers halfway to his mouth on the verge of another whistle. Do you know a friend of Mr. Gilles called Captain Cuddle? inquired Florence after a moment's reflection. In with the oak, Miss? rejoined Rob with an illustrative twist of his left hand. Yes, Miss! he was here a day before yesterday. Has he not been here since? asked Susan. Now, Miss? returned Rob, still addressing his reply to Florence. Perhaps Walter's uncle has gone there, Susan, observed Florence turning to her. To Captain Cuddle's, Miss? interposed Rob. No! he not gone there, Miss! because he left particular word. If Captain Cuddle called, I should tell him how surprised he was, and not to have seen him yesterday, and should make him stop till he came back. Do you know where Captain Cuddle lives? asked Florence. Rob replied in the affirmative, and turning to a greasy parchment book on the shop desk, read the address aloud. Florence again turned to her maid, and took counsel with her in a low voice, while Rob, the round-eyed, mindful of his patron's secret charge, looked on and listened. Florence proposed that they would go to Captain Cuddle's house, hear from his own lips what he thought of the absence of any tidings of the sun and air, and bring him, if they could, to comfort Uncle Sol. Susan at first objected slightly on the score of distance. But a hackney-coach being mentioned by her mistress withdrew that opposition, and gave in her assent. There were some minutes of discussion between them before they came to this conclusion, during which the staring Rob paid close attention to both speakers, and inclined his ear to each by-turns, as if he were a pointed arbitrator of the argument. In time, Rob was dispatched for a coach, the visitor's keeping shop meanwhile, and when he brought it, they got into it, leaving word for Uncle Sol, that they would be sure to call again on their way back. Rob, having stared out of the coach, until it was as invisible as the pigeons had now become, sat down behind the desk for the most assiduous demeanour, and in order that he might forget nothing of what had transpired, made notes of it on various small scraps of paper for the vast expenditure of ink. There was no danger of these documents betraying anything, if accidentally lost, or long before a word was dry, it became as profound a mystery to Rob, as if he had had no part whatever in its production. While he was yet busy with these labours, the Hackney coach, after encountering earn-heard-of difficulties from swivel bridges, soft roads, impassable canals, caravans of casks, settlements of scarlet beams, and little wash houses, and many such obstacles abounding in that country, stopped at the corner of Brigg Place. A lighting here, Florence and Susan Nipper walked down the street, and sought out the abode of Captain Cuddle. It happened by evil chance to be one of Mrs. Maxdinger's great cleaning days. On these occasions, Mrs. Maxdinger was knocked up by the policemen at a quarter before three in the morning, and rarely such before twelve o'clock next night. The chief object of this institution appeared to be that Mrs. Maxdinger should move all the furniture into the back garden at early dawn, walk about the house in patterns all day, and move the furniture back again after dark. These ceremonies greatly fluttered those doves, the young Maxdingers, who were not only unable at such times to find any resting place for the soles of their feet, but generally came in for a good deal of pecking from the maternal bird during the progress of the solemnities. At the moment when Florence and Susan Nipper presented themselves at Mrs. Maxdinger's door, that worthy but redoubtable female was in the act of conveying Alexander Maxdinger aged two years and three months along the passage for forcible deposition in a sitting posture on the street pavement, Alexander being black in the face withholding his breath after punishment, and a cool paving stone being usually found to act as a powerful restorative in such cases. The feelings of Mrs. Maxdinger as a woman and a mother were outraged by the look of pity for Alexander which she observed on Florence's face. Therefore Mrs. Maxdinger, asserting those finest emotions of our nature in preference to weakly gratifying her curiosity, shook and buffeted Alexander both before and during the application of the paving stone, and took no further notice of the strangers. I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Florence, when the child had found his breath again, and was using it. Is this Captain Cattles' house? No, said Mrs. Maxdinger. Not number nine, asked Florence, hesitating. Oh, said it wasn't number nine, said Mrs. Maxdinger. Susan Nipper instantly struck in and begged to inquire what Mrs. Maxdinger meant by that, and if she knew whom she was talking to. Mrs. Maxdinger, in retort, looked at her all over. What do you want with Captain Cattles? I should wish to know, said Mrs. Maxdinger. Should you? Then I'm sorry that you won't be satisfied, returned Miss Nipper. Hush, Susan, if you please, said Florence. Perhaps you can have the goodness to tell us where Captain Cattles lives, ma'am, as he don't live here. Who says he don't live here? Retorted the implacable Maxdinger. I said it wasn't Captain Cattles' house, and it ain't his house, and forbid it that it ever should be his house, for Captain Cattles don't know out at Keeper House, and don't deserve to have a house. It's my house, and when I let the upper floor to Captain Cattles, oh, I do a thankless thing and cast pearls before swine. Mrs. Maxdinger pitched her voice for the upper windows, in offering these remarks, and cracked off each clause sharply by itself. As if from a rifle possessing an infinity of barrels. After the last shot, the Captain's voice was heard to say, and feeble remonstance, from his own room, steady below. Since you won't Captain Cattle, there he is, said Mrs. Maxdinger, with an angry motion of her hand. On Florence making bold to enter without any more Polly, and on Susan following, Mrs. Maxdinger recommenced her pedestrian exercise in patterns, and Alexander Maxdinger, still on the paving-stone, who had stopped in his crying to attend to the conversation, began to wail again, entertaining himself during that dismal performance, which was quite mechanical, for the general survey of the prospect terminating in the Hackney coach. The Captain, in his own apartment, was sitting with his hands in his pockets, and his legs drawn up under his chair on a very small desolate island, lying about midway in an ocean of soap and water. The Captain's windows had been cleaned, the walls had been cleaned, the stove had been cleaned, and everything the stove accepted was wet, and shining with soft soap and sand, the smell of which dry sultry impregnated the air. In the midst of the dreary scene, the Captain, cast away upon his island, looked round on the waste of waters with the rueful countenance, and seemed waiting for some friendly bark to come that way, and take him off. But when the Captain, directing his forlorn visage towards the door, saw Florence appear with her maid, no words can describe his astonishment. Mrs. McStinger's eloquence, having rendered all other sounds but imperfectly distinguishable, he had looked for no rarer visitor than the pot boy, or the milkman. Wherefore, when Florence appeared, and coming to the confines of the island, put her hand in his, the Captain stood up aghast, as if he supposed her for the moment to be some young member of the flying Dutchman's family. Instantly recovering his self-possession, however, the Captain's first care was to place her on dry land, which he happily accomplished with one motion of his arm. Issuing forth then upon the main, Captain Cuddle took Miss Nipp around the waste, and bore her to the island also. Captain Cuddle then, with great respect and admiration, raised the hand of Florence to his lips, and standing off a little, for the island was not large enough for three, beamed on her from the soap and water, like a new description of Triton. You are amazed to see hers, I am sure, said Florence with a smile. The inexpressibly gratified Captain kissed his hook in reply, and growled, as if a choice and delicate compliment were included in the words, Stand by, Stand by. But I couldn't rest, said Florence, without coming to ask you what you think about Dear Walter, who is my brother now, and whether there is anything to fear, and whether he will not go and console his poor uncle every day, until we have some intelligence of him. At these words Captain Cuddle, as by an involuntary gesture, clapped his hand to his head, on which the hard-glazed hat was not, and looked discomforted. Have you any fears for Walter's safety? Enquired Florence, from whose face the Captain, so enraptured he was with it, could not take his eyes, while she, in her turn, looked earnestly at him, to be assured of the sincerity of his reply. No heart's delayed, said Captain Cuddle, I am not a feared. Walter is a lad as I'll go through a deal of hard weather. Walter is a lad as I'll bring as much success to that ear-brig, as a lad is capable on. Walter, said the Captain, his eyes glistening with the praise of his young friend, and his hook raised to announce a beautiful quotation, is what you may call an outward and visible sign of an inert and spirited grasp, and when found, make a note of. Florence, who did not quite understand this, though the Captain evidently thought it full of meaning and highly satisfactory, mildly looked to him for something more. I am not a feared, my heart's delight, resumed the Captain. There has been most uncommon bad weather in them latitudes, there is no denying, and they have drove and drove and been beaten off, maybe to the other side of the world. But the ships are good ship, and the lads are good lad, and it ain't easy, thank the Lord. The Captain made a little bow, to break up hearts of oak, whether they're in brigs or bosoms. Here we have him both ways, which is bringing it up with a round turn, and so I ain't a bit of feared as yet. As yet? repeated Florence. Not a bit, but then the Captain kissing his iron hand. And before I begin to be, my heart's delight, Wala will have wrote home from the island, or from some port or another, and made all taut and ship shape. And with her God, old Saul-gills, here the Captain became solemn. Who I'll stand by, and not desert, until death do us part, and when the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow, overhaul the catechism, said the Captain, parenthetically. And there you'll find them expressions, if it would console Saul-gills to have the opinion of a seafaring man, as has got a mind equal to any undertaking that he puts it alongside of. And as was all but smashed in his apprenticeship, and of which the name is Bunsby, that ear-man shall give him such an opinion in his own parlour as'll stun him. Said Captain Cattle, hauntingly, as botch as if he'd gone and knocked his head again a door. Let us take this gentleman to see him, and let us hear what he says. Cryed Florence, will you go with us now? We have a coach here. Again the Captain clapped his hand to his head, on which the hard glazed hat was not, and looked discomforted. But at this instant a most remarkable phenomenon occurred. The door opening, without any note of preparation, and apparently of itself, the hard glazed hat in question skimmed into the room like a bird, and alighted heavily at the Captain's feet. The door then shut as violently as it had opened, and nothing ensued in explanation of the prodigy. Captain Cattle picked up his hat, and, having turned it over with a look of interest and welcome, began to polish it on his sleeve. While doing so, the Captain eyed his visitors intently, and said in a low voice, You see, I should have bore down on soul-gills yesterday, and this morning, but she, she took it away and kept it. That's the long and short of the subject. Who did, for goodness' sake? asked Susan Nipper. The lady of the house, my dear, returned the Captain in a gruff whisper, and making signals of secrecy. We had some words about the swobbin' of the easier planks, and she, in short, said the Captain, eyeing the door, and relieving himself of the long breath. She stopped my liberty. Ah, wish she had me to deal with! said Susan, reddening with the energy of the wish. I'd stop her. Would you, do you, my dear? rejoined the Captain, shaking his head doubtfully, but regarding the desperate courage of the fair aspirant with obvious admiration. Oh, you don't know. It's difficult navigation. She's very hard to carry on with, my dear. You never can tell how she led, you see. She's full one minute, and round upon you next. And when she, in a tartar, said the Captain of the perspiration breaking out upon his forehead, there was nothing but a whistle emphatic enough for the conclusion of the sentence. So the Captain whistled, tremulously. After which she again shook his head, and recurring to his admiration of Miss Nipper's devoted bravery, timidly repeated, Would you, do you, think, my dear? Susan only replied with a bridling smile, but that was so very full of defiance, that there is no knowing how long Captain Cuttle might have stood entranced in its contemplation, if Florence in her anxiety had not again proposed their immediately resorting to the oracular Bonsby. Thus, reminded of his duty, Captain Cuttle put on the glazed hat firmly, took up another knobby stick, with which he had supplied the place of that one given to Walter, and offering his arm to Florence, prepared to cut his way through the enemy. It turned out, however, that Mrs. McStinger had already changed her course, and that she headed, as the Captain had remarked she often did, in quite a new direction. For when they got downstairs, they found that exemplary woman beating the mats on the door steps, with Alexander, still upon the paving stone, dimly looming through a fog of dust. And so absorbed was Mrs. McStinger in her household occupation, that when Captain Cuttle and his visitors passed, she beat the harder, and neither my word nor gesture showed any consciousness of their vicinity. The Captain was so well pleased with this easy escape, although the effect of the door mats on him was like a copious administration of snuff, and made him sneeze until the tears ran down his face, that he could hardly believe his good fortune. But more than once, between the door and the hackney coach, looked over his shoulder for the obvious apprehension of Mrs. McStinger's giving chase yet. However, they got to the corner of Brick Place without any molestation from that terrible fire-ship, and the Captain mounting the coach-box for his gallantry would not allow him to ride inside with the ladies, though besought to do so, piloted the driver on his course for Captain Bunsby's vessel, which was called the Cautious Clara, and was lying hard by Ratcliffe. Arrived at the wharf, off which this great commander's ship was jammed in among some five hundred companions, whose tangled rigging looked like monstrous cobwebs half swept down, Captain Cuttle appeared at the coach window, and invited Florence and Miss Nipper to accompany him on board, observing that Bunsby was to the last degree soft-hearted in respect of ladies, and nothing would so much tend to bring his expansive intellect into a state of harmony as their presentation to the Cautious Clara. Florence readily consented, and the Captain taking her little hand in his prodigious palm led her with a mixed expression of patronage, paternity, pride, and ceremony that was pleasant to see, over several very dirty decks, until, coming to the Clara, they found that cautious craft which lay outside the tier, with her gangway removed, and half a dozen feet of river interposed between herself and her nearest neighbour. It appeared from Captain Cuttle's explanation that the great Bunsby, like himself, was cruelly treated by his landlady, and that when her usage of him for the time being was so hard that he could bear it no longer, he set this gulf between them as a last resort. Clara, ahoy! cried the Captain, putting a hand to each side of his mouth. Ahoy! cried a boy, like the Captain's echo, tumbling up from below. Bunsby aboard! cried the Captain, hailing the boy in a stentorian voice, as if he were half a mile off instead of two yards. Ahoy! cried the boy in the same tone. The boy then shoved out a plank to Captain Cuttle, who adjusted it carefully, and led Florence across, returning presently from his nipper. So they stood upon the deck of the cautious Clara, in whose standing, rigging, diverse, fluttering articles of dress were curing, in company with a few tongues, and some mackerel. Immediately there appeared, coming slowly up above the bulkhead of the cabin, another bulkhead, human, and very large, with one stationary eye in the mahogany face, and one revolving one on the principle of some lighthouses. This head was decorated with shaggy hair, like oakum, which had no governing inclination towards the north, east, west, or south, but inclined to all four quarters of the campus, and to every point upon it. The head was followed by a perfect desert of chin, and by a shirt collar and neckerchief, and by a dreadnought pilot coat, and by a pair of dreadnought pilot trousers, whereof the waistband was so very broad and high, that it became a succidanium for a waistcoat, being ornamented near the wearer's breastbone, with some massive wooden buttons, like backgammon men. As the lower portions of these pantaloons became revealed, Bunsby stood confessed, his hands in their pockets, which were a vast size, and his gaze directed not to Captain Cuttle or the ladies, but the mast-head. The profound appearance of this philosopher, who was bulky and strong, and on whose extremely red face and expression of taciturnity sat enthroned, not inconsistent with his character, in which that quality was proudly conspicuous, almost daunted Captain Cuttle, though unfamiliar terms with him. Whispering to Florence that Bunsby had never in his life expressed surprise, and was considered not to know what it meant, the Captain watched him as he eyed his mast-head, and afterwards swept the horizon, and when the revolving eye seemed to be coming round in his direction, said, Bunsby, my lad, how fair is it? A deep, gruff, husky utterance, which seemed to have no connection with Bunsby, and certainly had not the least effect upon his face, replied, Aye, aye, shipment, how goes it? At the same time, Bunsby right-handed arm, emerging from a pocket, shook the Captains, and went back again. Bunsby, said the Captain, striking home at once, here you are, a man of mind, and a man as can give an opinion. Here's a young lady, as wants to take that opinion in regard to my friend Waller, likewise by another friend, Saul Gills, which is a character for you to come within Hale of, being a man of science, which is a matter of invention, and knows no law. Bunsby, will you wear to oblige me, and come along with us? The great Commander, who seemed by expression of his visage to be always on the lookout for something in the extremist distance, and to have no ocular knowledge of anything within ten miles, made no reply, whatever. Here is a man, said the Captain, addressing himself to his fair auditors, and indicating the Commander with his outstretched hook, that has fell down more than any man alive, that has had more accidents happen to his own self than the Seaman's Hospital to all hands, that took as many spars and bars and bolts about the outside of his head when he was young, as you'd want to order for on Chatham Yard to build a pleasure yacht with, and yet that is opinions in that way, it's my belief, for there ain't nothing like him afloat or ashore. The stolid Commander appeared by a very slight vibration in his elbows to express some satisfaction in this encomium, but if his face had been as distant as his gaze was, it could hardly have enlightened the beholder's less in reference to anything that was passing in his thoughts. Shit that! said Bunsby, all of a sudden, and stooping down to look out under some interposing spar. What all the ladies drink? Captain Cuttle, whose delicacy was shocked by such an inquiry and connection with Florence, drew the Sage aside and, seeming to explain in his ear, accompanied him below, where that he might not take offence, the Captain drank a dram himself, which Florence and Susan, glancing down the open skylight, saw the Sage, with difficulty finding room for himself between his birth and a very little brass fireplace, serve out for self and friend. They soon reappeared on deck, and Captain Cuttle, triumphing in the success of his enterprise, conducted Florence back to the coach, while Bunsby followed, escorting Miss Nipper, whom he hugged upon the way, much to that young lady's indignation, with his pilot-coated arm like a blue bear. The Captain put his oracle inside, and gloried so much in having secured him, and having got that mind into a hackney-coach, that he could not refrain from often peeping in at Florence through the little window behind the driver, and testifying his delight in smiles, and also in taps upon his forehead, to hint to her that the brain of Bunsby was hard at it. In the meantime, Bunsby, still hugging Miss Nipper, for his friend the Captain, had not exaggerated the softness of his heart, uniformly preserved his gravity of deportment, and showed no other consciousness of her or anything. Uncle Sol, who had come home, received him at the door, and ushered them immediately into the little back parlour, strangely altered by the absence of Walter. On the table and about the room were the charts and maps on which the heavy-hearted instrument-maker had again and again tracked the missing vessel across the sea, and on which, with a pair of compasses that he still had in his hand, he had been measuring a minute before how far she must have driven to a driven here or there, and trying to demonstrate that a long time must elapse before hope was exhausted. Whether she can have run, said Uncle Sol, looking wistfully over the chart, but no, that's almost impossible, or whether she can have been forced by stress of weather, but that's not reasonably likely, or whether there is any hope she so far changed her course as, but even I can hardly hope that. With such broken suggestions, poor old Uncle Sol roamed over the great sheet before him, I could not find a speck of hopeful probability in it, large enough to set one small point of the compasses upon. Florence so immediately it would have been difficult to help seeing. That there was a singular, indescribable change in the old man, and that while his manner was far more restless and unsettled than usual, there was yet a curious, contradictory decision in it that perplexed her very much. She fancied ones that he spoke wildly and at random, for on her saying she regretted not to have seen him when she had been there before that morning, he had first replied that he had been to see her, and directly afterwards seemed to wish to recall that answer. You have been to see me, said Florence, today? Yes, my dear young lady, returned Uncle Sol, looking at her and away from her in a confused manner. I wished to see you with my own eyes, and to hear you with my own ears, once more before, before when? Before what? said Florence, putting her hand upon his arm. Did I say before? replied Old Sol. If I did, I must have meant before we should have news of my dear boy. You are not well, said Florence tenderly. You have been so very anxious. I am sure you are not well. I am as well, returned the old man, shutting up his right hand and holding out to show her, as well and firm as any man at my time of life can hope to be. See, it's steady. Is its master not as capable of resolution and fortitude as many a younger man? I think so. We shall see. There was that in his manner, more than in his words, though they remained with her too, which impressed Florence so much, that she would have confided her uneasiness to Captain Cattle at that moment, if the Captain had not seized that moment for expounding the state of circumstance, on which the opinion of the sagacious Bunsby was requested, and in treating that profound authority to deliver the same. Bunsby, whose eye continued to be addressed to somewhere about the halfway house between London and Gravesend, two or three times put out his rough right arm as seeking to wind it for inspiration round the fair form of Miss Nipper. But that young female, having withdrawn herself into pleasure to the opposite side of the table, the soft heart of the commander of the cautious Clara met with no response to its impulses. After sundry failures in this wise, the commander, addressing himself to nobody, thus spake, or rather the voice within him, said of its own accord, and quite independent of himself, as if he were possessed by a rough spirit. My name's Jack Bunsby. He were Chris and John, cried the delighted Captain Cattle, hear him. And what I says, pursued the voice after some deliberation, I stands to. The Captain, with Florence on his arm, nodded at the auditory, and seemed to say, now he's coming out. This is what I meant when I brought him. Whereby, proceeded the voice, Why not? If so, what odds? Can any man say otherwise? No, awest then. When it had pursued its train of argument to this point, the voice stopped and rested. It then proceeded very slowly, thus, Do I believe that this ear of sun and air has gone down my lads? May have. Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by send George's channel, making for the dones, what's right there of him? The Good Winds. He isn't forced to run upon the Good Winds, but he may. The bearings of this observation lays in the application on it. That ain't no part of my duty. Awest then. Keep a bright look out for it, and good luck to you. The voice here went out of the back parlor and into the street, taking the commander of the cautious Clara with it, and accompanying him on board again with all convenient expedition, where he immediately turned in and refreshed his mind with a nap. The students of the sages' precepts left to their own application of his wisdom, upon a principle which was the main leg of the Bonsby tripod, as it is per chance of some other oracular stools, looked upon one another in a little uncertainty. While Rob the grinder, who had taken the innocent freedom of peering in and listening through the skylight in the roof, came softly down from the lads in a state of very dense confusion. Captain Cattle, however, whose admiration of Bonsby was, if possible, enhanced by the splendid manner in which he had justified his reputation and come through this solemn reference, proceeded to explain that Bonsby meant nothing but confidence, that Bonsby had no misgivings, and that such an opinion, as that man had given, coming from such a mind as his, was Hope's own anchor with good roads to cast it in. Florence endeavoured to believe that the captain was right. But the nipper, with her arms tight-folded, shook her head in resolute denial, and had no more trust in Bonsby than in Mr. Perch himself. The philosopher seemed to have left Uncle Sol pretty much where he had found him, for he still went roaming about the watery world, compasses in hand, and discovering no rest for them. It was in pursuance of a whisper in his ear from Florence, while the old man was absorbed in this pursuit, that Captain Cattle laid his heavy hand upon his shoulder. What cheer us all, gills! cried the Captain heartily. But so so, Ned, returned the instrument-maker, I have been remembering all this afternoon, that on the very day when my boy entered Dombie's house, and came home late to dinner, sitting just there where you stand, we talked of storm and shipwreck, and I could hardly turn him from the subject. But meeting the eyes of Florence, which were fixed with earnest scrutiny upon his face, the old man stopped and smiled. Stand by, old friend, cried the Captain, Look alive! I'll tell you what, Sol, gills! After I've convoyed Arts Delight safe home, hear the Captain kissed his hook to Florence, or you'll come back and take you in tow for the rest of this blessed day. You'll come and eat your dinner along with me, Sol, somewheres or another. Not to-day, Ned, said the old man quickly, and appearing to be unaccountably startled by the proposition, Not to-day, I couldn't do it. Why not? turned the Captain, gazing at him in astonishment. I have so much to do. I mean to think of and arrange. I couldn't do it, Ned, indeed. I must go out again, and be alone, and turn my mind to many things to-day. The Captain looked at the instrument-maker, and looked at Florence, and again at the instrument-maker. Tomorrow, then, he suggested at last. Yes, yes, tomorrow, said the old man. Think of me, tomorrow. Say, tomorrow. I shall come here early, mine, sir old gills. Stip, relate to the Captain. Yes, yes, the first thing, tomorrow morning, said old Sol. And now, goodbye, Ned Cuttle, and God bless you. Squeezing both the Captain's hands, with uncommon fervour, as he said it, the old man turned to Florence, folded hers in his own, and put them to his lips, then hurried her out to the coach with very singular precipitation. All together he made such an effect on Captain Cuttle, that the Captain lingered behind, and instructed Robb to be particularly gentle and attentive to his master until the morning, which in junction he strengthened with the payment of one shelling down, and the promise of another sixpence before noon next day. This kind office performed. Captain Cuttle, who considered himself the natural and lawful bodyguard of Florence, mounted the box with the mighty sense of his trust, and escorted her home. At parting he assured her that he would stand by Sol Gills, close and true. And once again, inquired of Susan Nipper, unable to forget her gallant words in reference to Mrs. Mac Stinger, Would you? Do you think, my dear, though? When the desolate house had closed upon the two, the Captain's thoughts reverted to the old instrument maker, and he felt uncomfortable. Therefore, instead of going home, he walked up and down the street several times, and, eking out his leisure until evening, dined late at a certain angular little tavern in the city, with the public parlour like a wedge, to which glazed hats much resorted. The Captain's principal intention was to pass Sol Gills's after dark, and look in through the window, which he did. The parlour door stood open, and he could see his old friend writing busily and steadily at the table within, while the little midshipman, already sheltered from the night dews, watched him from the counter, under which Rob the grinder made his own bed, preparatory to shutting the shop. Reassured by the tranquility that reigned within the precincts of the wooden mariner, the Captain headed for Brigg Place, resolving to weigh anchor betimes in the morning.