er of heavy iron machines were working in every room on each
floor; the building itself in so shattered a condition that every part
of it creaked and vibrated with their motion. The flooring was so broken
that in many places one could look down through the gaping and rotten
planks, while the upper floors from time to time had been shored up with
props.

This was the Palace of the Bishop of Wodgate, and here with his arms
bare and black, he worked at those locks, which defied any skeleton key
that was not made by himself. He was a short, thickset man, powerfully
made, with brawny arms disproportionately short even for his height, and
with a countenance, as far as one could judge of a face so disfigured by
his grimy toil, rather brutal than savage. His choice apprentices, full
of admiration and terror, worked about him; lank and haggard youths, who
never for an instant dared to raise their dingy faces and lack-lustre
eyes from their ceaseless labour. On each side of their master, seated
on a stool higher than the rest, was an urchin of not more than four or
five years of age, serious and demure, and as if proud of his eminent
position, or working incessantly at his little file;--these were two
sons of the bishop.

"Now boys," said the bishop, in a hoarse, harsh voice, "steady, there;
steady. There's a file what don't sing; can't deceive my ear; I know all
their voices. Don't let me find that un out, or I won't walk into him,
won't I? Ayn't you lucky boys, to have reg'lar work like this, and the
best of prog! It worn't my lot, I can tell you that. Give me that shut,
you there, Scrubbynose, can't you move? Look sharp, or I won't move you,
won't I? Steady, steady! All right! That's music. Where will you hear
music like twenty files all working at once! You ought to be happy boys,
oughtn't you? Won't there be a treat of fish after this, that's all!
Hulloa, there, you red-haired varmint, what are you looking after? Three
boys looking about them; what's all this? Won't I be among you?" and he
sprang forward and seized the luckless ears of the first apprentice he
could get hold off, and wrung them till the blood spouted forth.

"Please, bishop," sang out the boy, "it worn't my fault. Here's a man
what wants you."

"Who wants me?" said the bishop, looking round, and he caught the figure
of Morley who had just entered the shop.

"Well, what's your will? Locks or nails?"

"Neither," said Morley; "I wish to see a man named Hat