had long lost the pride which in former days would have made me resent
such a remark, and patiently waited for the result.

Stumpy's friend took me back. "Well," he said, "if you can't, you
can't. I'll see to him myself. Well, good-day; and I'll call on
Monday."

And he turned to depart, with me in his hand. In a minute, however, he
came back. "Would yer mind lending me some togs, sir, for a few
minutes?" said he; "I don't want no questions asked at the pawnshop."

And he certainly did not look, in his present get-up, as the likeliest
sort of owner of a silver watch. The man of the house, however, lent
him some clothes, in which he arrayed himself, and which so transformed
him that any one would have taken him, not for the disreputable thieves'
broker he was, but for the unfortunate decayed gentleman he professed to
be. In this guise he had no difficulty in disposing of me at the
nearest pawnbroker's shop, which happened to be at the corner of Grime
Street.

The pawnbroker asked no questions, and I am sure never suspected
anything wrong. He advanced thirty shillings on me and the chain, gave
the man his ticket, and put a corresponding one on me.

Then Stumpy's friend departed, and my new master went back to his
breakfast.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

HOW TOM DRIFT GETS LOWER STILL.

Two years passed.

They were, without exception, the dullest two years I, or, I venture to
say, any watch made, ever spent. There I lay, run down, tarnished and
neglected, on the pawnbroker's shelf, never moved, never used, never
thought of. Week followed week, and month month, and still no claimant
for me came.

Other articles on the shelves beside me came and went, some remaining
only a day, some a week, but I survived them all. Even my friend the
chain took his departure, and left me without a soul to speak to.

None of the hundreds of tickets handed in bore the magic number 2222,
which would have released me from my ignoble custody, and, in time, I
gave up expecting it, and settled down to the old-fogeydom of my
position, and exacted all the homage due to the "father of the shop"
from my restless companions.

My place was at the end of a long shelf, next to the screen dividing the
shop from the office, and my sole amusement during those two dreary
years was peeping through a crack and watching my master's customers.
They were of all sorts and all conditions, and many of them became
familiar.

There was the little