ever else I might fail I could promise him
industry.

"With some of them," complained Mr. Lott, in a tone of bitterness, "it's
nothing but play, girls, gadding about the streets. Work, business--oh,
no. I may go bankrupt; my wife and children may go into the workhouse.
No thought for me, the man that keeps them, feeds them, clothes them.
How much salary do you want?"

I hesitated. I gathered this was not a Cheeryble Brother; it would be
necessary to be moderate in one's demands. "Five-and-twenty shillings a
week," I suggested.

He repeated the figure in a scream. "Five-and-twenty shillings for
writing like that! And can't spell commission! Don't know anything about
the business. Five-and-twenty!--Tell you what I'll do: I'll give you
twelve."

"But I can't live on twelve," I explained.

"Can't live on twelve! Do you know why? Because you don't know how to
live. I know you all. One veal and ham pie, one roley-poley, one Dutch
cheese and a pint of bitter."

His recital made my mouth water.

"You overload your stomachs, then you can't work. Half the diseases you
young fellows suffer from are brought about by overeating."

"Now, you take my advice," continued Mr. Lott; "try vegetarianism. In
the morning, a little oatmeal. Wonderfully strengthening stuff, oatmeal:
look at the Scotch. For dinner, beans. Why, do you know there's
more nourishment in half a pint of lentil beans than in a pound of
beefsteak--more gluten. That's what you want, more gluten; no corpses,
no dead bodies. Why, I've known young fellows, vegetarians, who have
lived like fighting cocks on sevenpence a day. Seven times seven are
forty-nine. How much do you pay for your room?"

I told him.

"Four-and-a-penny and two-and-six makes six-and-seven. That leaves you
five and fivepence for mere foolery. Good God! what more do you want?"

"I'll take eighteen, sir," I answered. "I can't really manage on less."

"Very well, I won't beat you down," he answered. "Fifteen shillings a
week."

"I said eighteen," I persisted.

"Well, and I said fifteen," he retorted, somewhat indignant at the
quibbling. "That's splitting the difference, isn't it? I can't be fairer
than that."

I dared not throw away the one opportunity that had occurred. Anything
was better than return to the Reading Rooms, and the empty days full of
despair. I accepted, and it was agreed that I should come the following
Monday morning.

"Nabbed?" was Minikin's enquiry on my return to