e, sit down
my boy; tell me all about it, and let's have someting to eat."

Aby was proof against logical argument, but he could not stand up
against the "someting to eat." He sank into the chair again like an
infant. Mr Methusaleh took quick advantage of his success. Rushing
wildly to a corner cupboard, he produced from it a plate of cold crisp
fried fish, which he placed with all imaginable speed exactly under the
nose of the still vacillating Aby. He vacillated no longer. The spell
was complete. The old gentleman, with a perfect reliance upon the charm,
proceeded to prepare a cup of coffee at his leisure.

"And now, Aby," said the father, stirring the grounds of his muddy
beverage--"I'm dying to hear vot it all means. How did you manage to get
amongst dese people? You're more clever as your father." A hearty meal
of fish and coffee had considerably greased the external and internal
man of Aby Moses. His views concerning filial obligations became more
satisfactory and humane; his spirit was evidently chastened by
repletion.

"Father," said he, meaning to be very tender--"You have always been such
a fool about the company as I keep."

"Well, so I have, my dear; but don't rake up the past."

"It's owing to that very company, father, that you sees me in my proud
position."

"No!"

"It is, though. _Lend me your ears._"

"Don't be shtoopid, Aby--go on vith your story."

A slight curl might be seen playing around the dirty lip of Moses junior
at this parental ignorance of the immortal Will: a stern sacrifice of
filial reverence to poetry.

It passed away, and the youth proceeded.

"That Warren de Fitzalbert, father, as signed that dockyment, is a
buzzum friend. He see'd me one night when I played Catesby, and, after
the performance, requested the honour of an introduction, which I, in
course, could not refuse. You know how it is--men gets intimate--tells
one another their secrets--opens their hearts--and lives in one
another's societies. I never knew who he was, but I was satisfied he was
a superior gent, from the nateral course of his conversation. Everybody
said it as beautiful to see us, we was so united and unseparated. Well,
you may judge my surprise, when one day another gent, also a friend of
mine, says to me, 'Moses, old boy, do you know who Fitzalbert is?' 'No,'
says I, 'I don't.' 'Well, then,' says he, 'I'll tell you. He's a under
secretary of state.' There was a go! Only think of me being hand and