time), she made his bargains, and she
directed the operations of the poor-spirited little capitalist. When
bills became due, and debtors pressed for time, then she brought Hayes's
own professional merits into play. The man was as deaf and cold as a
rock; never did poor tradesmen gain a penny from him; never were the
bailiffs delayed one single minute from their prey. The Beinkleider
business, for instance, showed pretty well the genius of the two. Hayes
was for closing with him at once; but his wife saw the vast profits
which might be drawn out of him, and arranged the apprenticeship and the
partnership before alluded to. The woman heartily scorned and spit upon
her husband, who fawned upon her like a spaniel. She loved good cheer;
she did not want for a certain kind of generosity. The only feeling that
Hayes had for anyone except himself was for his wife, whom he held in
a cowardly awe and attachment: he liked drink, too, which made
him chirping and merry, and accepted willingly any treats that his
acquaintances might offer him; but he would suffer agonies when his wife
brought or ordered from the cellar a bottle of wine.

And now for the Doctor. He was about seventy years of age. He had been
much abroad; he was of a sober, cheerful aspect; he dressed handsomely
and quietly in a broad hat and cassock; but saw no company except the
few friends whom he met at the coffee-house. He had an income of about
one hundred pounds, which he promised to leave to young Billings. He was
amused with the lad, and fond of his mother, and had boarded with them
for some years past. The Doctor, in fact, was our old friend Corporal
Brock, the Reverend Doctor Wood now, as he had been Major Wood fifteen
years back.

Anyone who has read the former part of this history must have seen that
we have spoken throughout with invariable respect of Mr. Brock; and that
in every circumstance in which he has appeared, he has acted not only
with prudence, but often with genius. The early obstacle to Mr. Brock's
success was want of conduct simply. Drink, women, play--how many a brave
fellow have they ruined!--had pulled Brock down as often as his merit
had carried him up. When a man's passion for play has brought him to be
a scoundrel, it at once ceases to be hurtful to him in a worldly point
of view; he cheats, and wins. It is only for the idle and luxurious
that women retain their fascinations to a very late period; and Brock's
passions had been whipped