“‘Well,’ I says, ‘that ain’t the sort of thing to be humpy about.’

“‘Yes it is,’ he snaps back; ’it means that if I don’t take precious good care I’ll drift into being a blooming milkman, spending my life yelling “Milk ahoi!” and spooning smutty-faced servant-gals across area railings.’

“‘Oh!’ I says, ‘and what may you prefer to spoon—­duchesses?’

“‘Yes,’ he answers sulky-like; ’duchesses are right enough—­some of ’em.’

“‘So are servant-gals,’ I says, ’some of ’em.  Your hat’s feeling a bit small for you this morning, ain’t it?’

“‘Hat’s all right,’ says he; ’it’s the world as I’m complaining of—­beastly place; there’s nothing to do in it.’

“‘Oh!’ I says; ‘some of us find there’s a bit too much.’  I’d been up since five that morning myself; and his own work, which was scouring milk-cans for twelve hours a day, didn’t strike me as suggesting a life of leisured ease.

“‘I don’t mean that,’ he says.  ‘I mean things worth doing.’

“‘Well, what do you want to do,’ I says, ’that this world ain’t big enough for?’

“‘It ain’t the size of it,’ he says; ’it’s the dulness of it.  Things used to be different in the old days.’

“‘How do you know?’ I says.

“‘You can read about it,’ he answers.

“‘Oh,’ I says, ’and what do they know about it—­these gents that sit down and write about it for their living!  You show me a book cracking up the old times, writ by a chap as lived in ’em, and I’ll believe you.  Till then I’ll stick to my opinion that the old days were much the same as these days, and maybe a trifle worse.’

“‘From a Sunday School point of view, perhaps yes,’ says he; ’but there’s no gainsaying—­’

“‘No what?’ I says.

“‘No gainsaying,’ repeats he; ‘it’s a common word in literatoor.’

“‘Maybe,’ says I, ’but this happens to be “The Blue Posts Coffee House,” established in the year 1863.  We will use modern English here, if you don’t mind.’  One had to take him down like that at times.  He was the sort of boy as would talk poetry to you if you weren’t firm with him.

“‘Well then, there’s no denying the fact,’ says he, ’if you prefer it that way, that in the old days there was more opportunity for adventure.’

“‘What about Australia?’ says I.

“‘Australia!’ retorts he; ’what would I do there?  Be a shepherd, like you see in the picture, wear ribbons, and play the flute?’

“‘There’s not much of that sort of shepherding over there,’ says I, ’unless I’ve been deceived; but if Australia ain’t sufficiently uncivilised for you, what about Africa?’

“‘What’s the good of Africa?’ replies he; ’you don’t read advertisements in the “Clerkenwell News”:  “Young men wanted as explorers.”  I’d drift into a barber’s shop at Cape Town more likely than anything else.’

“‘What about the gold diggings?’ I suggests.  I like to see a youngster with the spirit of adventure in him.  It shows grit as a rule.