I watched his countenance.   “That’ll do—­you’re a brick!   I’ll make a man
of you--d___ me.”

From this day forward I had the honour of keeping his books, and making out the accounts.  I was already a person of importance, and certainly some steps above the boys on the landing.

I did not, however, obtain any advance in my weekly wages; but on “good-days” got a douceur, varying from half a crown to half a sovereign! and looked upon myself as a made man.  Most of the receipts went to my father; whatever he returned to me I spent at a neighbouring book-stall, and in the course of twelve months I possessed a library of most amusing and instructive literature,—­Heaven knows! of a most miscellaneous character, for I had no one to guide me in the selection.

Among Mr. Timmis’s numerous clients, was one Mr. Cornelius Crobble, a man of most extraordinary dimensions; he was also a “chum” of, and frequently made one of a party with, his friend Mr. Wallis, and other croneys, to white-bait dinners at Blackwall, and other intellectual banquets.  In fact, he seldom made his appearance at the office, but the visit ended in an engagement to dine at some “crack-house” or other.  The cost of the “feed,” as Mr. Timmis termed it, was generally decided by a toss of “best two and three;” and somehow it invariably happened that Mr. Crobble lost; but he was so good-humoured, that really it was a pleasure, as Mr. Wallis said, to “grub” at his expense.

They nick-named him Maximo Rotundo—­and he well deserved the title.

“Where’s Timmis?” said he, one day after he had taken a seat, and puffed and blowed for the space of five minutes—­“Cuss them stairs; they’ll be the death o’ me.”

I ran to summon my master.

“How are you, old fellow?” demanded Mr. Timmis; “tip us your fin.”

“Queer!” replied Mr. Crobble,—­tapping his breast gently with his fat fist, and puffing out his cheeks—­to indicate that his lungs were disordered.

“What, bellows to mend?” cried my accomplished patron-- D___ me, never
say die!”

“Just come from Doctor Sprawles:  says I must take exercise; no malt liquor—­nothing at breakfast—­no lunch—­no supper.”

“Why, you’ll be a skeleton—­a transfer from the consolidated to the reduced in no time,” exclaimed Mr. Timmis; and his friend joined in the laugh.

“I was a-thinking, Timmis—­don’t you belong to a cricketclub?”

“To be sure.”

—­“Of joining you.”

“That’s the ticket,” cried Timmis—­“consider yourself elected; I can carry any thing there.  I’m quite the cock of the walk, and no mistake.  Next Thursday’s a field-day—­I’ll introduce you.  Lord! you’ll soon be right as a trivet.”

Mr Wallis was summoned, and the affair was soon arranged; and I had the gratification of being present at Mr. Crobble’s inauguration.

It was a broiling day, and there was a full field; but he conducted himself manfully, notwithstanding the jokes of the club.  He batted exceedingly well, “considering,” as Mr. Wallis remarked; but as for the “runs,” he was completely at fault.