Mr. Smallweed corrects him—­Chesney Wold.

“Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) If any man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the present time as I literally find myself, I should have—­well, I should have pitched into him,” says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-water with an air of desperate resignation; “I should have let fly at his head.”

“Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,” remonstrates Mr. Guppy.  “You were talking about nothing else in the gig.”

“Guppy,” says Mr. Jobling, “I will not deny it.  I was on the wrong side of the post.  But I trusted to things coming round.”

That very popular trust in flat things coming round!  Not in their being beaten round, or worked round, but in their “coming” round!  As though a lunatic should trust in the world’s “coming” triangular!

“I had confident expectations that things would come round and be all square,” says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression and perhaps of meaning too.  “But I was disappointed.  They never did.  And when it came to creditors making rows at the office and to people that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles of borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion.  And of any new professional connexion too, for if I was to give a reference to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up.  Then what’s a fellow to do?  I have been keeping out of the way and living cheap down about the market-gardens, but what’s the use of living cheap when you have got no money?  You might as well live dear.”

“Better,” Mr. Smallweed thinks.

“Certainly.  It’s the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers have been my weaknesses, and I don’t care who knows it,” says Mr. Jobling.  “They are great weaknesses—­Damme, sir, they are great.  Well,” proceeds Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, “what can a fellow do, I ask you, but enlist?”

Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state what, in his opinion, a fellow can do.  His manner is the gravely impressive manner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwise than as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.

“Jobling,” says Mr. Guppy, “myself and our mutual friend Smallweed—­”

Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, “Gentlemen both!” and drinks.

“—­Have had a little conversation on this matter more than once since you—­”

“Say, got the sack!” cries Mr. Jobling bitterly.  “Say it, Guppy.  You mean it.”

“No-o-o!  Left the Inn,” Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests.

“Since you left the Inn, Jobling,” says Mr. Guppy; “and I have mentioned to our mutual friend Smallweed a plan I have lately thought of proposing.  You know Snagsby the stationer?”

“I know there is such a stationer,” returns Mr. Jobling.  “He was not ours, and I am not acquainted with him.”