goods, with the result that a good many of the latter, in the course of
a term, came to be damaged, and some, he had reason to suppose,
pilfered, then Mr Webster thought it time to make a stand and assert
himself. He was, therefore, more brusque and less obsequious to the
junior portion of Templeton this term than he had been last.

So, when Coote, in the artlessness of his nature, feigned an earnest
desire to know the price of an elegant ormolu inkpot, and modestly
inquired it, the tradesman eyed him sharply and replied--

"Ten shillings. Do you want to buy it?"

Coote was one of those individuals who cannot say "no" to a shopman.
Though nothing was further from his mind than putting his sadly reduced
pocket-money into an ormolu inkpot, his tender heart could not bear to
dash the stationer's hopes too rudely. He said he couldn't quite make
up his mind, and would just look round, if he might.

Mr Webster had got tired of the young Templeton gentlemen "looking
round." He knew what it meant, generally. The springs of all his
inkpots got critically tested, pencils got twisted in and out till they
refused to twist again, desks got ransacked, and their contents mixed in
glorious and hopeless confusion, photographs got thumbed, books got dog-
eared; and the sole profit to the honest merchant was the healthy
exercise of putting everything tidy after his visitors had left, and the
satisfaction of expressing his feelings in language strictly selected
from the dictionary.

He was, therefore, by no means elated at Coote's proposal, and might
have vetoed it, had not an important customer, in the shape of the Rev.
Mr Westworth, the curate, entered at that moment, and diverted his
attention. But even the reverend gentleman's conversation was unable
entirely to engross the honest bookseller, who kept a restless corner of
one eye on the boy's movements, while, with the rest of his features, he
smiled deferentially at his customer.

Coote, meanwhile, unaware of the suspicion with which he was being
regarded, enjoyed a pleasant five minutes in turning Mr Webster's stock
of writing materials inside out. Being of a susceptible nature, he fell
in love with a great many things in the course of his investigations,
and the ormolu inkpot was several times eclipsed. What took his fancy
most was a pretty chased silver penholder and pencil, which shut up into
the compass of a date-stone, and yet, when open, was large and firm
enough