s, and I have two staring
flannel shirts, which are only fit for a snob to wear. The junior clerk
gives me the three dozen cigars, and I give the junior clerk the two
staring flannel shirts. That's barter, and barter's commerce, old boy!
it's all my father's fault; he will make a tradesman of me. Dutiful
behavior, isn't it, to be doing a bit of commerce already on my own
account?"

"I'll tell you what, Zack," said Mr. Blyth, "I don't like the way you're
going on in at all. Your last letter made me very uneasy, I can promise
you."

"You can't be half as uneasy as I am," rejoined Zack. "I'm jolly enough
here, to be sure, because I can't help it somehow; but at home I'm the
most miserable devil on the face of the earth. My father baulks me in
everything, and makes me turn hypocrite, and take him in, in all sorts
of ways--which I hate myself for doing; and yet can't help doing,
because he forces me to it. Why does he want to make me live in the same
slow way that he does himself? There's some difference in our ages, I
rather think! Why does he bully me about being always home by eleven
o'clock? Why does he force me into a tea-merchant's office, when I want
to be an artist, like you? I'm a perfect slave to commerce already.
What do you think? I'm supposed to be sampling in the city at this very
moment. The junior clerk's doing the work for me; and he's to have
one of my dress-waistcoats to compensate him for the trouble. First
my shirts; then my waistcoat; then my--confound it, sir, I shall be
stripped to the skin, if this sort of thing goes on much longer!"

"Gently, Zack, gently. What would your father say if he heard you?"

"Oh, yes! it's all very well, you old humbug, to shake your head at me;
but you wouldn't like being forced into an infernal tea-shop, and having
all your pocket-money stopped, if it was your case. I won't stand it--I
have the patience of Job--but I won't stand it! My mind's made up:
I want to be an artist, and I _will_ be an artist. Don't lecture,
Blyth--it's no use; but just tell me how I'm to begin learning to draw."

Here Zack cunningly touched Valentine on his weak point. Art was his
grand topic; and to ask his advice on that subject was to administer the
sweetest flattery to his professional pride. He wheeled his chair round
directly, so as to face young Thorpe. "If you're really set on being an
artist," he began enthusiastically, "I rather fancy, Master Zack, I'm
the man to help you. First o