There was another scribe of quite an elegant sort: a perambulating
tailor's dummy; a young man, well under thirty. He was good-looking, as
far as regularity of features and a well-formed figure went, but mentally
not much to boast of. He lounged about the station platform and the town
displaying his faultlessly fitting fashionable clothes. They always
looked new, and as his salary was not more than 70 pounds a year, and his
parents, with whom he lived, were poor, the story that he was provided
gratis by an enterprising tailor in town with these suits, on condition
that he exhibited himself constantly in public, and told whenever he
could who was his outfitter, received general credence, and I believe was
true. He was never known to hurry, mingled little with men and less with
women, but moved along in a stiff tailor-dummy fashion with a sort of
self-conscious air which seemed to say, "Look at my figure and my
clothes, how stylish they are!"

I remember a senior clerk in the office where I first worked to whom
there was a general aversion. He was the only clerk who was really
disliked, for all the others, old or young, serious or gay, steady or
rackety, had each some pleasant quality. This unfortunate fellow had
none. He was small, mean, cunning, a sneak and a mischief maker. He
carried tales, told lies, and tried to make trouble, for no reason but to
gratify his inclinations. He was a dark impish looking fellow, as lean
as Cassius and as crafty and envious as Iago. The chief clerk, to his
credit be it said, gave a deaf ear to his tales, and his craft and
cunning obtained him little beyond our detestation.

In our own office about half our number were youths and single men and
about half were married. Our youngest benedict was not more than
eighteen years of age, and his salary only 45 pounds a year. On this