the world and fight
for myself, for I was quite alone.

I can't go into all this now--how I used to sit in my bed-room at night
with my head aching from thinking and trying to see impossibilities.
Let it be sufficient if I tell you that after several trials at various
things, for all of which I was soon told I was inefficient, I found
myself, a big, sturdy, country-looking lad, seated on an old
leather-covered stool at a double desk, facing Esau Dean, writing and
copying letters, while my fellow-clerk wrote out catalogues for the
printer to put in type, both of us in the service of Mr Isaac Dempster,
an auctioneer in Baring Lane, in the City of London, and also both of
us, according to Mr Dempster, the most stupid idiots that ever dipped
pen in ink.

I supposed then that Mr Dempster was right--that I was stupid and not
worth my salt, and that he had only to hold up his little finger and he
could get a thousand better lads than we were; but at the same time I
felt puzzled that he should keep us on, and that Saturday after Saturday
he should pay our wages and never say a word about discharging us--Esau
for going to sleep over his work, and me for making so many mistakes.

I had had scores of opportunities for judging that Mr Dempster was a
hard unfeeling man, who was never harder than when he had been out to
his lunch, and came back nibbling a toothpick, and smelling very
strongly of sherry; but it had never come so thoroughly home to me as on
that bright day, just at the time when for nearly an hour the sun shone
down into the narrow court-like lane, and bathed our desk, and made me
think of the country, the garden, the bright river, and above all, of
those who were dead and gone.

As I told you, my eyes were very dim when I saw Mr John Dempster come
out of the office slowly and close the door, to stand on the mat shaking
his head sadly.

"He who goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing," he said to himself, softly.
"I might have known--I might have known."

He turned then and glanced at Esau, smiling faintly to see him asleep,
and then his eyes met mine gazing at him fixedly, for somehow he seemed
just then to have a something in his face that recalled my father, as he
looked one day when he had had some very bad news--something about
money. And as I gazed at our visitor that day the likeness seemed to
grow wonderful, not in features, but in his aspect, and the lines about
his eyes and the corner of his mouth.

"Ah,