a public-house as he left Mr. Dabb’s for just threepennyworth to support him on his way.  Frequently when he went there he met a man of about thirty who also was apparently enjoying a modest threepennyworth to help him home or help him away from it or help him to do something which he could not do without it, and Andrew and he began gradually, under the influence of their threepennyworths, to talk to one another.  He was clean shaven, had glossy black hair, a white and somewhat sad face, was particularly neat but rather shabby, and, what at first was a puzzle to Andrew, looked as if he was going to begin work rather than leave it, for his boots were evidently just blacked.  He was a music-hall comic singer.  His father and mother—­fathers and mothers, even the best of them, will do such things—­had given him a fairish schooling, but had never troubled themselves to train him for any occupation.  They stuck their heads in the sand, believed something would turn up, and trusted in Providence.  Considering the kind and quantity of trust which is placed in Providence, the most ambitious person would surely not aspire to its high office, and it may be pardoned for having laid down the inflexible rule to ignore without exception the confidence reposed in it.  Poor George Montgomery found himself at eighteen without any outlook, although he was a gentleman, and his father was a clergyman.  The only appointment he could procure was that of temporary clerk in the War Office during a “scare”—­“a merely provisional arrangement,” as the Rev. Mr. Montgomery explained, when inquiries were made after George.  The scare passed away; the temporary clerks were discharged; the father died; and George, still more unfitted for any ordinary occupation, came down at last, by a path which it is not worth while to trace, to earn a living by delighting a Southwark audience nightly with his fine baritone voice, good enough for a ballad in those latitudes, and good enough indeed for something much better if it had been properly exercised under a master.  He was not downright dissolute, but his experience with his father, who was weak and silly, had given him a distaste for what he called religion; and he was loose, as might be expected.  Still, he was not so loose as to have lost his finer instincts altogether, for he had some.  He read a good deal, mostly fiction, played the organ, and actually conducted the musical part of a service every Sunday, heathen as he was.  His vagrant life of excitement begot in him a love of liquor, which he took merely to quiet him, but unfortunately the dose required strengthening every now and then.  He was mostly in debt; prided himself on not dishonouring virtuous women—­a boast, nevertheless, not entirely justifiable; and through his profession had acquired a slightly histrionic manner, especially when he was reciting, an art in which he was accomplished.  He found out that Andrew had a sister, and he gave him a couple of tickets for an entertainment which