"Well, blow me," exclaimed my friend the ostler, "if your fortin' arn't
made; I shall see you a tip-top sawyer--may I never touch another tanner!
Vy, I remembers Jim Timmis hisself vos nothin but a grubby boy--Mother
Timmis the washer-woman's son, here in what-d've-call-'em-court--ven he
vent to old Jarvis fust. He's a prime feller tho', and no mistake--and
thof he's no gentleman born, he pays like one, and vot's the difference?"

The next morning, punctual to the hour, I waited at his office, which was
in a large building adjoining the Stock Exchange, as full as a dove-cot,
with gentlemen of the same feather.

"O!" said he, eyeing my parent, "and you're this chap's father, are you?
What are you?"

"A boot and shoe-maker, sir; and my Andrew is an honest lad."

"For the matter o' that, there's little he can prig here;" replied my
elegant and intended master. "But his tongs--eh--old fellow--can't you
rig him out a little?"

My father pleaded poverty; and at last he bargained to advance a guinea,
and deduct it out of my weekly-wages of two and sixpence, and no board.
My father was glad to make any terms, and the affair was consequently
soon arranged. I was quickly fitted out, and the next morning attended
his orders.

I had, however, little else to do than wait in his office, and run to the
Stock Exchange, to summon him when a customer dropped in. I had much
leisure, which I trust was not wholly thrown away, for I practised
writing on the back of the stock-receipts, of which a quantity hung up in