In two years I found myself at the head of six clerks, and had as much business as I could possibly manage.

My star was in the ascendant.  I had not only more money than I required for my expenses, but was enabled to maintain my poor old father, who daily became more and more infirm.

I rented a small cottage at the rural village of Hackney, but my labour occupied me early and late, and it was only on a Sunday I could really enjoy my home.

Three years after quitting the office of Mr. Timmis, I had the inexpressible pleasure of employing him to purchase stock for his errand boy!  I was proud as a king.

“I said that boy would turn out well,” said the good-natured Mr. Wallis; “he always had a good principle.”

“And now bids fair,” said Mr. Timmis, “to have both principal and interest.”

Mr. Crobble having lately had a large property left him in Hertfordshire, rarely came to the office above once a-quarter, to settle accounts.

“A good dividend—­a very good dividend!” said he, upon receipt of the last quarter’s profits.  “But, Mr. Mullins, I cannot forget that this business is your child.”

“And I’m happy to say a thriving one,” I replied.

“Are you satisfied—­perfectly satisfied?” demanded he.

“Beyond my wishes, sir.”

“I am not,” said he shortly.

“No, sir?” exclaimed I, with surprise.

“No, Sir!” repeated he.  “Those who sow should reap.  I’ve no children—­I’m an idle fellow-a drone, sir—­and won’t consent to consume all the honey.  Don’t speak, sir—­read that!” and he pulled a parchment from his pocket.

It was a deed of partnership between Cornelius Crobble, of Lodge,
Hertfordshire, Esquire, and the poor cobbler’s son,

Andrew Mullins.

A RIGMAROLE.—­PART I.

“De omnibus rebus.”

The evening is calm—­the sun has just sunk below the tiles of the house, which serenely bounds the view from the quiet attic where I wield the anserine plume for the delectation of the pensive public—­all nature, etc.—­the sky is deep blue, tinged with mellowest red, like a learned lady delicately rouged, and ready for a literary soiree—­the sweet-voiced pot-boy has commenced his rounds with “early beer,” and with leathern lungs, and a sovereign contempt for the enactments of the new police-act —­greasy varlets proclaim to the hungry neighbourhood—­“Baked sheeps’ heads, hot!”—­O! savoury morsel!—­May no legislative measure ever silence this peripatetic purveyor to the poor! or prevent his calling—­may the tag-rag and bob-tail never reject a sheep’s head!