After that I shall expect you to keep yourself."

Grindley senior rose. "You need not give me your answer till the
evening. You are of age. I have no control over you unless you are
willing to agree. You can go my way, or you can go your own."

Young Grindley, who had inherited a good deal of his father's grit, felt
very much inclined to go his own; but, hampered on the other hand by the
sweetness of disposition he had inherited from his mother, was unable to
withstand the argument of that lady's tears, so that evening accepted old
Grindley's terms, asking only as a favour that the scene of his probation
might be in some out-of-the-way neighbourhood where there would be little
chance of his being met by old friends.

"I have thought of all that," answered his father. "My object isn't to
humiliate you more than is necessary for your good. The shop I have
already selected, on the assumption that you would submit, is as quiet
and out-of-the-way as you could wish. It is in a turning off Fetter
Lane, where you'll see few other people than printers and caretakers.
You'll lodge with a woman, a Mrs. Postwhistle, who seems a very sensible
person. She'll board you and lodge you, and every Saturday you'll
receive a post-office order for six shillings, out of which you'll find
yourself in clothes. You can take with you sufficient to last you for
the first six months, but no more. At the end of the year you can change
if you like and go to another shop, or make your own arrangements with
Mrs. Postwhistle. If all is settled, you go there to-morrow. You go out
of this house to-morrow in any event."

Mrs. Postwhistle was a large, placid lady of philosophic temperament.
Hitherto the little grocer's shop in Rolls Court, Fetter Lane, had been
easy of management by her own unaided efforts; but the neighbourhood was
rapidly changing. Other grocers' shops were disappearing one by one,
making way for huge blocks of buildings, where hundreds of iron presses,
singing day and night, spread to the earth the song of the Mighty Pen.
There were hours when the little shop could hardly accommodate its crowd
of customers. Mrs. Postwhistle, of a bulk not to be moved quickly, had,
after mature consideration, conquering a natural disinclination to
change, decided to seek assistance.

Young Grindley, alighting from a four-wheeled cab in Fetter Lane, marched
up the court, followed by a weak-kneed wastrel staggering under the
weight of a s