There were many stock-brokers who put up at the ride; among others was Mr. Timmis—­familiarly called long Jim Timmis.  He was a bold, dashing, good-humoured, vulgar man, who was quite at home with the ostlers, generally conversing with them in their favourite lingo.

I had frequent opportunities of shewing him civilities, handing him his whip, and holding his stirrup, etc.

One day he came to the ride in a most amiable and condescending humour, and for the first time deigned to address me—­“Whose kid are you?” demanded he.

“Father’s, sir,” I replied.

“Do you know your father, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A wise child this;” and he winked at the ostler, who, of course, laughed incontinently.

“I want a-lad,” continued he; “what do you say—­would you like to serve me?”

“If I could get any thing by it.”

“D-me, if that a’int blunt.”

“Yes, sir; that’s what I mean.”

“Mean! mean what?”

“If I could get any blunt, sir.”

Hereupon he laughed outright, at what he considered my readiness, although I merely used the cant term for “money,” to which I was most accustomed, from my education among the schoolmasters of the ride.

“Here, take my card,” said he; “and tell the old codger, your father, to bring you to my office to-morrow morning, at eleven.”

“Well, blow me,” exclaimed my friend the ostler, “if your fortin’ arn’t made; I shall see you a tip-top sawyer—­may I never touch another tanner!  Vy, I remembers Jim Timmis hisself vos nothin but a grubby boy—­Mother Timmis the washer-woman’s son, here in what-d’ve-call-’em-court—­ven he vent to old Jarvis fust.  He’s a prime feller tho’, and no mistake—­and thof he’s no gentleman born, he pays like one, and vot’s the difference?”

The next morning, punctual to the hour, I waited at his office, which was in a large building adjoining the Stock Exchange, as full as a dove-cot, with gentlemen of the same feather.

“O!” said he, eyeing my parent, “and you’re this chap’s father, are you?  What are you?”

“A boot and shoe-maker, sir; and my Andrew is an honest lad.”

“For the matter o’ that, there’s little he can prig here;” replied my elegant and intended master.  “But his tongs—­eh—­old fellow—­can’t you rig him out a little?”

My father pleaded poverty; and at last he bargained to advance a guinea, and deduct it out of my weekly-wages of two and sixpence, and no board.  My father was glad to make any terms, and the affair was consequently soon arranged.  I was quickly fitted out, and the next morning attended his orders.

I had, however, little else to do than wait in his office, and run to the Stock Exchange, to summon him when a customer dropped in.  I had much leisure, which I trust was not wholly thrown away, for I practised writing on the back of the stock-receipts, of which a quantity hung up in the office, and read all the books I could lay my hands on; although, I must confess, the chief portion of my knowledge of the world has been derived from observation.