"I don't think, you know," said I, feeling rather extinguished by
Doubleday's pitying tone, "it's such a very cheap place. It's three-
and-six a week."

Doubleday gazed at me in astonishment, and then broke out into a loud
laugh.

"Three-and-six a week! Why, my dear fellow, you could do it cheaper in
a workhouse. Oh, good gracious! your uncle must be in precious low
water to stick you up in a hole like that at three-and-six a week. Do
you know what my lodgings cost, eh, young 'un?"

"No," said I, very crestfallen; "how much?"

"Fifteen bob, upon my honour, and none too grand. Three-and-six a week,
why--I say, Crow!"

"Oh, don't go telling everybody!" cried I, feeling quite ashamed of
myself.

"Oh, all serene. But it is rather rich, that. Good job you don't get
your grub there."

I did not tell Doubleday that I did get my "grub" there, and left him to
infer what he pleased by my silence.

"Anyhow," said he, "if you must hang on there, there's nothing to
prevent your knocking about a bit of an evening. What do you generally
go in for when your friend Bull's-eye's at home? I mean what do you do
with yourselves of an evening?"

"Oh," said I, "they've got a parlour at Mrs Nash's, and books--"

Once more Doubleday laughed loud, "What! a parlour and books included
for three-and-six a week! My eye! young 'un, you're in luck; and you
mean to say you--oh, I say, what a treat!--do you hear, Crow?"

"Please!" I exclaimed, "what's the use of telling any one?"

"Eh--oh, all right, I won't tell any one; but think of you and Bull's-
eye sitting in a three-and-six parlour without carpets or wall-papers
reading _Tim Goodyboy's Sunday Picture-book_, and all that."

I smiled faintly, vexed though I was. "They've novels there," I said,
grandly.

"No! and all for three-and-six too! No wonder you're snug. Well, no
accounting for tastes. I wonder you don't ask me to come and spend an
evening with you. It _would_ be a treat!"

The result of this conversation and a good many of a similar character
was to make me thoroughly discontented with, and more than half ashamed
of, my lot. And the more I mixed with Doubleday and his set, the more I
felt this. They all had the appearance of such well-to-do fellows, to
whom expense seemed no object. They talked in such a scoffing way of
the "poor beggars" who couldn't "stand" the luxuries they indulged in,
or dress in the fashionable style they affected.

After six