At the Bull and Mouth they saw that marvel, the General Post Office, but they had not much time to look at it, for here they were met by a young man from Mr. Dabb.  They were disappointed that Mrs. Dabb had not come, but a verbal excuse was offered that she was in bed with a headache.  Mr. Dabb, of course, was too busy to leave.  The messenger was commissioned to take them to their uncle’s, where they were to have tea; and after tea they were to go to the lodgings which Mrs. Dabb had provisionally selected for them.  In a few minutes they had crossed London Bridge, and drew up in front of Mr. Dabb’s house.  There was no private entrance, and they encountered their uncle on the pavement.  He was short and thick, with a very florid complexion, and wore a brown jersey, and a white apron fastened at the back with a curious brass contrivance.  There were two or three people with him, and he had a knife in his hand.  The doors were wide open; there seemed to be no windows, and in fact Mr. Dabb’s establishment was a portion of the street just a little recessed.  He was in and out continually, now on the pathway talking to a customer there, and then passing inside to the ladies who were a little more genteel, and preferred to state their wants under cover.  At the back of the shop was a desk perched up aloft, just big enough for one person, and with a gaslight over it.  Andrew noticed it, and thought of winter, and wondered how anybody could sit there during a January day with the snow on the ground, or during a cold thaw.

Mr. Dabb put down his knife and shook hands with them.

“Well, Mr. Andrew, so you’ve come to make your fortune—­long hours, hard work, stick at nothing; cutting place the Borough.  Better go inside.  Put your traps up in that corner; you’ll want ’em again directly.  Aunt’s abed upstairs; can’t see you to-night.”

They went into a little greasy back parlour, lighted by a skylight, if indeed a window could be so called whose connection with the sky was so far from being immediate.

Mr. Dabb looked in.  “You’ll have some tea in a minute.  I myself can’t leave—­shorthanded.”

They were not asked to wash or take off their travelling clothes.

Presently a slut of a girl appeared with a tray on which there were some ham, a shapeless mass of butter which looked as if it had been scooped out of a pot, a loaf, a teapot, some cups and saucers, a milk jug, and two plates, with knives and forks.  She went to a cupboard, put a black cruet-stand on the table, and as the milk had been spilt over the bread, she took the plate to the fender, emptied it amongst the ashes, and wiped it with her apron.  The apron was also used to wipe the butter plate, on which there was an unusually black mark, with lines resembling the imprint of a very big thumb.  In about half-an-hour after they had refreshed themselves Uncle Dabb looked in.

“Better be off before it gets dark.  Eight o’clock sharp to-morrow morning, Andrew.  Sharp’s the word.  Breakfast before you come.  My boy will show you your quarters.  Needn’t take them unless you like them.”