"Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Was he pleased?” “Calmly! He said—you won’t mind my telling you?” “Not a bit. The door to the room in question was closed. It was clear it must be to-morrow. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one.
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