"I have thought of all that," answered his father. "My object
isn't to humiliate you more than is necessary for your good. The
shop I have already selected, on the assumption that you would
submit, is as quiet and out-of-the-way as you could wish. It is in
a turning off Fetter Lane, where you'll see few other people than
printers and caretakers. You'll lodge with a woman, a Mrs.
Postwhistle, who seems a very sensible person. She'll board you
and lodge you, and every Saturday you'll receive a post-office
order for six shillings, out of which you'll find yourself in
clothes. You can take with you sufficient to last you for the
first six months, but no more. At the end of the year you can
change if you like and go to another shop, or make your own
arrangements with Mrs. Postwhistle. If all is settled, you go
there to-morrow. You go out of this house to-morrow in any event."

Mrs. Postwhistle was a large, placid lady of philosophic
temperament. Hitherto the little grocer's shop in Rolls Court,
Fetter Lane, had been easy of management by her own unaided
efforts; but the neighbourhood was rapidly changing. Other
grocers' shops were disappearing one by one, making way for huge
blocks of buildings, where hundreds of iron presses, singing day
and night, spread to the earth the song of the Mighty Pen. There
were hours when the little shop could hardly accommodate its crowd
of customers. Mrs. Postwhistle, of a bulk not to be moved quickly,
had, after mature consideration, conquering a natural
disinclination to change, decided to seek assistance.

Young Grindley, alighting from a four-wheeled cab in Fetter Lane,
marched up the court, followed by a weak-kneed wastrel staggering