“How d’ye do, Mr. Andrew,” said Mr. Crobble, when he had seated himself, and sufficiently inflated his lungs, after the fatiguing operation of mounting the stairs.

“Where’s Timmis?—­tell him I want a word with him.”

I quickly summoned my patron, and followed him into the office.

“Well, old puff and blow!” exclaimed Mr. Timmis, with his usual familiarity.

“What’s in the wind?  Want to sell out?  The fives are fallen three per cent. since Friday.  All the ’Change is as busy as the devil in a high wind.”

“No—­no more dabbling, Timmis,” replied Mr. Crobble; “I lost a cool hundred last account; I want a word in private with you”—­and he glanced towards me; upon which I seized my hat, and took up my position at my old post on the landing.  How were my feelings altered since I first loitered there, listening to the marvels of poor Matthew!

I was lost in a pleasant reverie, when the sharp voice of Mr. Timmis recalled me.

“Andrew,” said he, “my friend Crobble wants a clerk, and has cast his eye upon you.  What do you say?”

I scarcely knew what to say.  On one side stood my master, to whom I really owed so much—­on the other his friend, who offered me a promotion, which I felt, on many accounts, was most attractive.  “I should have no objection,” I replied, “but great pleasure in serving Mr. Crobble, sir—­but—­I have received so many favours from you, that I’m afraid I might seem ungrateful.”

The good-natured Mr. Wallis happily stepped in at this moment to my relief.

“Nonsense,” replied Mr. Timmis; “the stock is delivered to the highest bidder; here Crobble backs eighteen shillings a week against my half-a-crown-take him.”

I still felt some hesitation, although it was evident, from his expression, that Mr. Timmis valued the servant much less than the servant valued the master.

“Only look here, Wally,” cried he; “here stands Andrew, like an ass between two bundles of hay.”

“Rather like a bundle of hay between two asses, I think,” replied Mr. Wallis; and good-naturedly tapping me on the shoulder, he continued—­” accept Mr. Crobble’s offer, Master Andrew:  you’re much too good for Timmis—­he can soon get a grubby half-crown boy—­but you may wait a long time for such an eligible offer.”

“Eighteen shillings a week,” said Mr. Crobble; who, I must confess, without any particular stretch of self-esteem, appeared anxious to engage me—­, “but I shall want security.”

That word “security” fell like an avalanche on my mounting spirit, and cast me headlong down the imaginary ascent my busy thoughts had climbed to!

“Five hundred pounds,” continued Mr. Crobble; “d’ye think—­have you any friends?”

“None, sir; my father is a poor man, and quite unable.”  I could scarcely speak—­like the driver of the one-horse chaise, I could neither advance nor recede.

“The father,” said Mr. Timmis, “is only a poor shoe-maker—­a good fellow tho’—­an excellent fit!”