elpless. The world
was big. I feared it might walk over me, trample me down, never seeing
me. I seemed unable to attract its attention.

One morning I found waiting for me at the Reading Room another of the
usual missives. It ran: "Will Mr. P. Kelver call at the above address
to-morrow morning between ten-thirty and eleven." The paper was headed:
"Lott and Co., Indian Commission Agents, Aldersgate Street." Without
much hope I returned to my lodgings, changed my clothes, donned my
silk hat, took my one pair of gloves, drew its silk case over my holey
umbrella; and so equipped for fight with Fate made my way to Aldersgate
Street. For a quarter of an hour or so, being too soon, I walked up and
down the pavement outside the house, gazing at the second-floor windows,
behind which, so the door-plate had informed me, were the offices of
Lott & Co. I could not recall their advertisement, nor my reply to it.
The firm was evidently not in a very flourishing condition. I wondered
idly what salary they would offer. For a moment I dreamt of a Cheeryble
Brother asking me kindly if I thought I could do with thirty shillings
a week as a beginning; but the next I recalled my usual fate, and
considered whether it was even worth while to climb the stairs, go
through what to me was a painful ordeal, merely to be impressed again
with the sense of my own worthlessness.

A fine rain began to fall. I did not wish to unroll my umbrella,
yet felt nervous for my hat. It was five minutes to the half hour.
Listlessly I crossed the road and mounted the bare stairs to the second
floor. Two doors faced me, one marked "Private." I tapped lightly at the
second. Not hearing any response, after a second or two I tapped again.
A sound reached me, but it was unintelligible. I knocked yet again,
still louder. This time I heard a reply in a shrill, plaintive tone:

"Oh, do come in."

The tone was one of pathetic entreaty. I turned the handle and entered.
It was a small room, dimly lighted by a dirty window, the bottom half of
which was rendered opaque by tissue paper pasted to its panes. The place
suggested a village shop rather than an office. Pots of jam, jars of
pickles, bottles of wine, biscuit tins, parcels of drapery, boxes of
candles, bars of soap, boots, packets of stationery, boxes of cigars,
tinned provisions, guns, cartridges--things sufficient to furnish a
desert island littered every available corner. At a small desk under the
window sat a yo