CHAPTER IV

A SHOCK TO MR. WADDINGTON

Punctually at nine o'clock on the following morning, Alfred Burton,
after a night spent in a very unsatisfactory lodging-house, hung up his
gray Homburg on the peg consecrated to the support of his discarded silk
hat, and prepared to plunge into his work. The office-boy, who had been
stricken dumb at his senior's appearance, recovered himself at last
sufficiently for speech.

"My eye!" he exclaimed. "Whose clothes have you been stealing? What
have you been up to, eh? Committing a burglary or a murder?"

Burton shook his head.

"Nothing of the sort," he replied pleasantly. "The fact is I came to
the conclusion that my late style of dress, as you yourself somewhat
eloquently pointed out yesterday, was unbecoming."

The boy seemed a little dazed.

"You look half way between a toff and an artist!" he declared. "What's
it all about, anyway? Have you gone crazy?"

"I don't think so," Burton replied. "I rather think I have come to my
senses. Have you got those last furniture accounts?"

"No use starting on that job," Clarkson informed him, genially. "The
guvnor wants you down at the salesrooms, you've got to clerk for him."