his perch with the start it gave him, and actually uttered a feeble
croak, in the extremity of his astonishment.

'Well said, Tim--well said, Tim Linkinwater!' cried brother Charles,
scarcely less pleased than Tim himself, and clapping his hands gently
as he spoke. 'I knew our young friend would take great pains, and I was
quite certain he would succeed, in no time. Didn't I say so, brother
Ned?'

'You did, my dear brother; certainly, my dear brother, you said so, and
you were quite right,' replied Ned. 'Quite right. Tim Linkinwater is
excited, but he is justly excited, properly excited. Tim is a fine
fellow. Tim Linkinwater, sir--you're a fine fellow.'

'Here's a pleasant thing to think of!' said Tim, wholly regardless of
this address to himself, and raising his spectacles from the ledger to
the brothers. 'Here's a pleasant thing. Do you suppose I haven't often
thought of what would become of these books when I was gone? Do you
suppose I haven't often thought that things might go on irregular and
untidy here, after I was taken away? But now,' said Tim, extending his
forefinger towards Nicholas, 'now, when I've shown him a little more,
I'm satisfied. The business will go on, when I'm dead, as well as it did
when I was alive--just the same--and I shall have the satisfaction of
knowing that there never were such books--never were such books! No, nor
never will be such books--as the books of Cheeryble Brothers.'

Having thus expressed his sentiments, Mr Linkinwater gave vent to
a short laugh, indicative of defiance to the cities of London and
Westminster, and, turning again to his desk, quietly carried seventy-six
from the last column he had added up, and went on with his work.

'Tim Linkinwater, sir,' said brother Charles; 'give me your hand, sir.
This is your birthday. How dare you talk about anything else till you
have been wished many happy returns of the day, Tim Linkinwater? God
bless you, Tim! God bless you!'

'My dear brother,' said the other, seizing Tim's disengaged fist, 'Tim
Linkinwater looks ten years younger than he did on his last birthday.'

'Brother Ned, my dear boy,' returned the other old fellow, 'I believe
that Tim Linkinwater was born a hundred and fifty years old, and
is gradually coming down to five-and-twenty; for he's younger every
birthday than he was the year before.'

'So he is, brother Charles, so he is,' replied brother Ned. 'There's not
a doubt about it.'

'Remember, Tim,' said bro