a
man of stubborn temper and of many whims; and he was by no means confident
as to the reception with which his intended proposal would meet. It was
characteristic that, as he thought of the difficulties of his enterprise,
he prayed earnestly that, if God willed, he might obtain the gratification
of his present desire. Then, with growing confidence and quickened step,
he proceeded on his way, until, at length, he stood before his landlord's
house.

The house was a low, dingy building of brick, which stood right across the
end of a squalid street, and completely blocked the way. Over the door was
a grimy sign-board, on which could faintly be distinguished the vague yet
comprehensive legend:

"D. FROUD,
DEALER."

The paint upon the crazy door was blistered and had peeled off in huge
mis-shapen patches; the door-step was almost worn in two; the windows
were dim with the dust of many years.

The door was opened by a withered crone, who, to his question whether Mr.
Froud was in, answered in an injured tone, "Yes, he was in; he always
was;" and, as she spoke, she half-pushed the visitor into a room on the
left side of the entrance, and vanished from the scene. The room was very
dark, and it was some time before "Cobbler" Horn could observe the nature
of his surroundings. But, by degrees, as his eyes became accustomed to the
gloom, he perceived that the centre of the apartment was occupied with an
old mahogany table, covered with a litter of books and papers. There stood
against the wall opposite to the window an ancient and dropsical chest of
drawers. Facing the door was a fire-place, brown with rust, innocent of
fire-irons, and piled up with heterogeneous rubbish. The walls and
chimney-piece were utterly devoid of ornaments. The paper on the walls
was torn and soiled, and even hung in strips. On the chimney-piece were
several empty ink and gum bottles, an old ruler, and a further assortment
of similar odds and ends. The only provision for the comfort of visitors
consisted of two battered wooden chairs.

At first "Cobbler" Horn thought he was alone; but, the next moment, he
heard himself sharply addressed, though not by name.

"Well, it's not rent day yet. What's your errand?"

It was a snarling voice, and came from the corner between the window and
fire-place, peering in which direction, "Cobbler" Horn perceived dimly
the figure of the man he had come to see.