"I am sorry I spoke, Clarkson," he apologized humbly. "It certainly
seemed to have slipped my memory that I myself--I can't think how I
managed to make such hideous, unforgivable mistakes."

"While we are upon the subject," his subordinate continued, ruthlessly,
"why don't you give your fingernails a scrub sometimes, eh? You might
give your coat a brush, too, now and then, while you are about it. All
covered with scurf and dust about the shoulders! I'm all for
cleanliness, I am."

Burton made no reply. He was down and his junior kicked him.

"I'd like to see the color of your shirt if you took those paper cuffs
off!" the latter exclaimed. "Why don't you chuck that rotten dickey
away? Cave!"

The door leading into the private office was brusquely opened. Mr.
Waddington, the only existing member of the firm, entered---a large,
untidy-looking man, also dressed in most uncomely fashion, and wearing
an ill-brushed silk hat on the back of his head. He turned at once to
his righthand man.

"Well, did you land him?" he demanded, with some eagerness.

Burton shook his head regretfully.

"It was quite impossible to interest him in the house at all, sir," he
declared. "He seemed inclined to take it at first, but directly he
understood the situation he would have nothing more to do with it."