proper to follow them to the office of the comptroller, and as that
dignitary read out from his books the name of every Henry, and of
all the varieties of Ralf and Randolf among the hundred and eighty
persons composing the household, he kept on making comments. "Harry
Hempseed, clerk to the kitchen; ay, Hempseed will serve his turn one
of these days. Walter Randall, groom of the chamber; ah, ha! my
lads, if you want a generous uncle who will look after you well,
there is your man! He'll give you the shakings of the napery for
largesse, and when he is in an open-handed mood, will let you lie on
the rushes that have served the hall. Harry of Lambeth, yeoman of
the stable. He will make you free of all the taverns in Eastchepe."

And so on, accompanying each remark with a pantomime mimicry of the
air and gesture of the individual. He showed in a second the
contortions of Harry Weston in drawing the bow, and in another the
grimaces of Henry Hope, the choir man, in producing bass notes, or
the swelling majesty of Randall Porcher, the cross-bearer, till it
really seemed as if he had shown off the humours of at least a third
of the enormous household. Stephen had laughed at first, but as
failure after failure occurred, the antics began to weary even him,
and seem unkind and ridiculous as hope ebbed away, and the appalling
idea began to grow on him of being cast loose on London without a
friend or protector. Ambrose felt almost despairing as he heard in
vain the last name. He would almost have been willing to own Hal
the scullion, and his hopes rose when he heard of Hodge Randolph,
the falconer, but alas, that same Hodge came from Yorkshire.

"And mine uncle was from the New Forest in Hampshire," he said.

"Maybe he went by the name of Shirley," added Stephen, "'tis where