The tall, spare man was cleanly shaved, he wore a very white collar, his expression combined benignity with a certain ascetic calm.  He carried two or three books in his left hand, pressed against his heart with a sort of caress, an affection very common with gentlemen of the cloth, for Nicholas Crips had a keen eye for character, and his various impersonations were fairly true to type, and of no mean dramatic quality.

Nickie the Kid knocked gently at an office door, a peremptory voice called “Come in,” and he opened the door very softly, entered, closed the door very gently behind him, placed his crippled belltopper (rim uppermost) on the small counter that walled visitors off from the severe gentleman dictating to a blonde typewriter and said, with clerical unction.

“Good-day sir.  Good-day my dear young lady.”

“D-afternoon!” replied the severe gentleman severely.

“Sir.  I am here on a mission of charity, if you don’t mind.  I am the Rev Andrew Rowbottom.  I am collecting subscriptions for the widow and family of the late William John Elphinston, a worthy member of my congregation, and a most estimable bricklayers labourer, killed, as you may remember, in the execution of his duty on the 14th September last.”

“Bless my soil, I can’t be bothered with these matters in business hours,” said the gentleman, and is severity was something terrible, but it did not appal the Rev. Andrew Rowbottom.

“I have here a subscription list,” continued the intruder suavely.  “You will find upon it the name of some of our most prominent business people.”

“I’m busy.” said the severe gentleman.

“Need I remind you, my very good sir, that the smallest contribution will be thankfully received?”

“Be so good as to close the door after you.”

“Certainly, brother, all in good time.  Shall we say half-a-crown?  Half-a-crown is a nice sum.  No?  A shilling perhaps?”

“I suppose I shall have to pay for the privilege of being left in peace to the pursuit of my affairs.  Here!!” The severe man slapped a shilling on the counter.

“Oh, thank you—­thank you so much.” said the Rev. Andrew Rowbottom effusively.  “What name?”

“Confound the name!” snapped the severe gentle man.  “Good-day.”

“Oh, to be sure, to be sure—­good—­day,” said the Rev. Andrew, and he smiled and bowed and slid I trough the half-open door.

Nicholas Crips called at many offices.  In a few instances the occupants evaded a levy.  They were people who had no particular business in hand, and could spare the time to hear all the Rev. Andrew Rowbottom persuasive arguments and stubbornly resist each plea, but the majority of the men were glad to buy the eloquent clergyman off with a small contribution.  Sometimes office boys were impertinent, and an occasional business man was insolent and talked of throwing the suppliant out of the window, but Mr. Rowbottom was always suave and conciliatory.  He seemed to sympathise with the angry individual whose privacy he was forced to break in pursuit of a sacred duty.