supper he crept into bed.

All night long he warred with his new boots. Footsore, he limped about the
streets of a spectral city, where at every corner some one seemed to lie in
ambush for him, and each time the lurking enemy proved to be no other than
Mrs. Weare, who gazed at him with scornful eyes and let him totter by. The
creaking of the boots was an articulate voice, which ever and anon screamed
at him a terrible name. He shrank and shivered and groaned; but on he went,
for in his hand he held a crossed cheque, which he was bidden to get
changed, and no one would change it. What a night!

When he woke his brain was heavy as lead; but his meditations were very
lucid. Pray, what did he mean by that insane outlay of money, which he
could not possibly afford, on a new (and detestable) pair of boots? The old
would have lasted, at all events, till winter began. What was in his mind
when he entered the shop? Did he intend...? Merciful powers!

Mr. Tymperley was not much of a psychologist. But all at once he saw with
awful perspicacity the moral crisis through which he had been living. And
it taught him one more truth on the subject of poverty.

Immediately after his breakfast he went downstairs and tapped at the door
of Mr. Suggs' sitting-room.

'What is it?' asked the bookbinder, who was eating his fourth large rasher,
and spoke with his mouth full.

'Sir, I beg leave of absence for an hour or two this morning. Business of
some moment demands my attention.'