nt's portrait is not yet finished. He was a peculiar man, and
men of this sort cannot be sketched off in a few lines. Indeed, had he
not been a peculiar man, it would not have been worth while to drag him
thus prominently into notice.

Among other peculiarities in Mr Sudberry's character, he was afflicted
with a chronic tendency to _dab_ his pen into the ink-bottle and split
it to the feather, or double up its point so as to render it
unserviceable. This infirmity, coupled with an uncommon capacity for
upsetting ink-bottles, had induced him to hire a small clerk, whose
principal duties were to mend pens, wipe up ink, and, generally, to
attend to the removal of _debris_.

When Mr Sudberry slept he did it profoundly. When he awoke he did it
with a start and a stare, as if amazed at having caught himself in the
very act of indulging in such weakness. When he washed he puffed, and
gasped, and rubbed, and made such a noise, that one might have supposed
a walrus was engaged in its ablutions. How the skin of his head, face,
and neck stood the towelling it received is incomprehensible! When he
walked he went like an express train; when he sauntered he relapsed into
the slowest possible snail's-pace, but he did not graduate the changes
from one to the other. When he sat down he did so with a crash. The
number of chairs which Mr Sudberry broke in the course of his life
would have filled a goodly-sized concert-room; and the number of
tea-cups which he had swept off tables with the tails of his coat might,
we believe, have set up a moderately ambitious man in the china trade.

There was always a beaming smile on the merchant's countenance, except
when he was engaged in deep thought; then his mouth was pursed and his
brows knitted.

The small clerk was a thin-bodied, weak-minded, timid boy, of about
twelve years of age and of humble origin. He sat at Mr Sudberry's
double desk in the office, opposite and in dangerous proximity to his
master, whom he regarded with great admiration, alarm, and awe.

On a lovely afternoon towards the middle of May, when city men begin to
thirst for a draught of fresh air, and to long for an undignified roll
on the green fields among primroses, butter-cups, and daisies, Mr
Sudberry sat at his desk reading the advertisements in the _Times_.

Suddenly he flung the paper away, hit the desk a sounding blow with his
clinched fist, and exclaimed firmly--

"I'll do it!"

Accustomed though he