eliminary warning given by that clock some time before the
premonitory hiss. Between this harbinger of coming events, and the
joyful sound which was felt to be "an age," Ned was wont to wipe his pen
and arrange his papers. When the hiss began, he invariably closed his
warehouse book and laid it in the desk, and had the desk locked before
the first stroke of the hour. While the "minute-gun at sea" was going
on, he changed his office-coat for a surtout, not perfectly new, and a
white hat with a black band, the rim of which was not perfectly
straight. So exact and methodical was Ned in these operations, that his
hand usually fell on the door-latch as the last gun was fired by the
aggravating clock. On occasions of unusual celerity he even managed to
drown the last shot in the bang of the door, and went off with a
sensation of triumph.

On the present occasion, however, Ned Hooper deemed it politic to be so
busy, that he could not attend to the warnings of the timepiece. He
even sat on his stool a full quarter of an hour beyond the time of
departure. At length, Mr Auberly issued forth.

"Mr Quill," said he, "my mind is made up, so it is useless to urge such
considerations on me. Good-night."

Mr Quill, whose countenance was sad, looked as though he would
willingly have urged the considerations referred to over again, and
backed them up with a few more; but Mr Auberly's tone was peremptory,
so he only opened the door, and bowed the great man out.

"You can go, Hooper," said Mr Quill, retiring slowly to the inner
office, "I will lock up. Send the porter here."

This was a quite unnecessary permission. Quill, being a good-natured,
easy-going man, never found fault with Ned Hooper, and Ned being a
presumptuous young fellow, though good-humoured enough, never waited for
Mr Quill's permission to go. He was already in the act of putting on
the white hat; and, two seconds afterwards, was in the street wending
his way homeward.

There was a tavern named the "Angel" at the corner of one of the streets
off Tooley Street, which Edward Hooper had to pass every evening on his
way home. Ned, we grieve to say, was fond of his beer; he always found
it difficult to pass a tavern. Yet, curiously enough, he never found
any difficulty in passing this tavern; probably because he always went
in and slaked his thirst _before_ passing it.

"Good evening, Mr Hooper," said the landlord, who was busy behind his
counter serving a m