learn the business."

"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth either. It's
hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes;
and I know very well that he could better himself, and earn twice what I
am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put
ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes
under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers
in this age. I don't know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your
advertisement."

"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a fellow
for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving
his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole
to develop his pictures. That is his main fault; but, on the whole, he's a
good worker. There's no vice in him."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking,
and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the house, for I am a
widower, and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of
us; and we keep a roof over our heads, and pay our debts, if we do nothing
more.

"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he