tirely without
money, and nobody would lodge a shabby apprentice with only one shoe,
for nothing. He wandered on until he was clear of London and in the open
fields, begging of those he met on the road, but who always replied to
his solicitation, "Why don't you go to work, you lazy 'prentice?" for
they knew what he was, because he wore a 'prentice's flat cap. Worst of
all, night now came on, and Bartlemy was at last compelled to lie down
beneath a tree, where he soon fell asleep. The moon rose high, and still
Bartlemy snored, when, all of a sudden, he was roused by a smart blow on
the shoulder from what he could have sworn was a yard stick.

"Needles and pins!" cried Bartlemy, sitting up in haste; "what's that?"

"Bartlemy Bowbell," croaked a strange voice, "look at me."

Bartlemy looked round, and to his extreme terror, saw standing beside
him a being whom he could only suppose to be a goblin. He was not more
than four feet high, with very bow legs, as though from a constant habit
of tucking them up on a tailor's shop board; his clothes, fashioned from
odd bits of velvet and cloth such as tailors call "cabbage," or, as we
should say, the pieces of the customers' stuff left from their
coats--were trimmed with thimbles for bell buttons; on his head was a
tailor's cotton nightcap, with a long tassel, and hanging at his waist
were an immense pair of shears, and a pincushion bristling with needles
and pins. In one hand he carried the yard stick with which he had struck
the luckless 'prentice, and in the other a tailor's goose, or flat iron.

His face was expressive of the most jovial good humor, though it could
not be called handsome, for his nose was flattened as though he were in
the habit of trying his iron against the end; his hair seemed composed
of long and short threads mingled together, and he had an abominable
squint, as though he were always endeavoring to see how a coat set at
the front and back, the collar and tail at the same time.

"Bartlemy," said the goblin again, "what's the matter with you?"

"Matter, your worship?" gasped Bartlemy.

"Come to the point," said the goblin, severely, accidentally swinging
his pincushion against Bartlemy's legs at the same time, and pricking
him most atrociously. "You are everlastingly growling and grumbling,
instead of working at your trade like an honest tailor, and richly
deserve to be thwacked with the yardstick every morning by way of
breakfast; but never mind, I ch