CHAPTER XV.—­An Old Acquaintance.

“Only three holidays left, and still this plaguey glass says ’very wet;’—­I can’t bear it—­I can’t—­and I won’t.”

How impatiently did I count the minutes ’till the office was closed, for I longed to communicate the glad tidings of my good fortune to my worthy father.  The old man wept with joy at the prospect, and assisted me in rearing those beautiful fabrics termed castles in the air.

His own trade, by the recommendation of the rough, ill-mannered, but good-natured Mr. Timmis, had wonderfully increased; and, by making some temporary sacrifices, he was enabled to give me an appearance more suitable to the new position in which I was so unexpectedly placed.  In a narrow alley, on the south side of the Royal Exchange, on the ground-floor, I found the counting-house of Mr. Crobble.  Under his directions, I quickly made myself master of the details of the business.  Alas! it was but the slender fragment of a once flourishing mercantile house, of which time had gradually lopped off the correspondents, whilst his own inertness had not supplied the deficiency by a new connexion; for his father had left him such an ample fortune, that he was almost careless of the pursuit, although he could not make up his mind, as he said, to abandon the “old shop,” where his present independence had been accumulated.  I consequently found plenty of leisure, uninterrupted by the continual hurry and bustle of a broker’s office, to pursue my favourite studies, and went on, not only to the entire satisfaction of Mr. Crobble, but to my own, and really began to find myself a man of some importance.

In the course of business, I one day fell in with an old acquaintance.

“A parcel for Cornelius Crobble, Esq.,” said a little porter, of that peculiar stamp which is seen hanging about coach-offices—­“Two and-sixpence.”

I looked at the direction, and drew out the “petty cash” to defray the demand; when, then, first looking at the man, I thought I recognised his features.

“What!” cried I, “Isn’t your name—­”

“Matthew,” answered he quickly.

“Matthew!—­why, don’t you know me?”

“No, sir,” replied he, staring vacantly at me.

“Indeed!—­Have I so outgrown all knowledge?  Don’t you recollect Andrew Mullins?”

“Good heavins!” exclaimed he, with his well-remembered nasal twang; “are you—­”

“Yes.”

“Well, I declare now you’ve growed into a gentleman.  I should’nt—­I really should’nt—­” He did not say what he really “should not”—­but extended his hand.—­“Hope you ain’t too proud to shake hands with an old friend?—­”

I shook him heartily by the hand, and made some enquiries touching his history.

Poor Matthew seated himself with all the ease imaginable, and laid his knot beside him, and began, after the manner of his favourite heroes, to “unbosom himself.”