boxes, and a lot of cobwebs, and in one of 'em, just over my head, a
shrivelled-up blue-bottle that looks as if it had hung there ever so
long.'

'Nothing else?' said the Uncle.

'No, nothing else, except an old birdcage (I wonder how that ever
came there!) and a coal-scuttle.'

'No bankers' books, or cheque books, or bills, or such tokens of
wealth rolling in from day to day?' said old Sol, looking wistfully at
his nephew out of the fog that always seemed to hang about him, and
laying an unctuous emphasis upon the words.

'Oh yes, plenty of that I suppose,' returned his nephew carelessly;
'but all that sort of thing's in Mr Carker's room, or Mr Morfin's, or
MR Dombey's.'

'Has Mr Dombey been there to-day?' inquired the Uncle.

'Oh yes! In and out all day.'

'He didn't take any notice of you, I suppose?'.

'Yes he did. He walked up to my seat, - I wish he wasn't so solemn
and stiff, Uncle, - and said, "Oh! you are the son of Mr Gills the
Ships' Instrument-maker." "Nephew, Sir," I said. "I said nephew, boy,"
said he. But I could take my oath he said son, Uncle.'

'You're mistaken I daresay. It's no matter.