ed what Fluellen calls his
'ploody coxcomb,' he will take out a summons against me for assault."

He threw himself on the bed, while I, in trembling bewilderment,
prepared the breakfast. Presently he broke into a loud laugh.

"The fool! The mammonite fool, Asticot! Does he think that Mr.
Ulysses-es are picked up by the hundred among the smug young men of the
Polytechnic who add up figures, and keep books by double entry? Do you
know what double entry is?"

"No, Master," said I from my squatting seat on the floor by the gas
stove.

"Thank the gods for your ignorance. It is a nescience whereby human
aspirations are cribbed within ruled lines and made to balance on the
opposite side. Would you like to see me obey Mr. Mammon's behest and
crib my aspirations within ruled lines?"

"No, Master," said I.

"The gods have given you understanding," said he, "which is better than
book-keeping by double entry."

At the time I thought my master's attitude magnificent and I despised
Mr. Pogson from the bottom of my heart. But since then I have wondered
how the deuce the Lotus Club survived a month of Paragot's management.
In after years when I questioned him, he said airily that he left all
financial questions to Ballantyne, the old actor proprietor, who had
grown infirm, and that he was president and not manager. Yet to my
certain knowledge he paid wages to Mrs. Housekeeper, Cherubino and
myself, and as for tradesmen's bills they were strewn about Paragot's
bedchamber like the autumn leaves of Vallombrosa, in greater numbers
than the articles of his attire. On the other hand, I have no
recollection of moneys coming in. There must have been some loose
unbusinesslike arrangement between Ballantyne and himself which most
justifiably shocked the business instincts of Mr. Pogson. There I
sympathise with the latter. But I must admit that he showed a want of
tact in dealing with Paragot.

My master was in gay spirits during breakfast. When he had finished, he
declared the meal to be the most enjoyable he had eaten in Tavistock
Street. My insensate conceit regarded the statement as a tribute to my
culinary skill and I glowed with pride. I informed him that my herring
cookery was nothing to what I could do with sprats.

"My little Asticot," said he, filling his porcelain pipe, "I have to
offer you my joint congratulation and commiseration. I congratulate you
on your being no longer a scullion. I commiserate with you on the loss
of