o hope of improvement; instead of decreasing, the work
multiplied.

What saved him was the fortunate death of Lawyer Lawton. The aged
solicitor's death put the town into mourning and hung the church with
black. But Denry as a citizen bravely bore the blow because he was able
to secure the services of Penkethman, Lawyer Lawton's eldest clerk, who,
after keeping the Lawton books and writing the Lawton letters for
thirty-five years, was dismissed by young Lawton for being over fifty
and behind the times. The desiccated bachelor was grateful to Denry. He
called Denry "Sir," or rather he called Denry's suit of clothes "Sir,"
for he had a vast respect for a well-cut suit. On the other hand, he
maltreated the little office-boy, for he had always been accustomed to
maltreating little office-boys, not seriously, but just enough to give
them an interest in life. Penkethman enjoyed desks, ledgers, pens, ink,
rulers, and blotting-paper. He could run from bottom to top of a column
of figures more quickly than the fire-engine could run up Oldcastle
Street; and his totals were never wrong. His gesture with a piece of
blotting-paper as he blotted off a total was magnificent. He liked long
hours; he was thoroughly used to overtime, and his boredom in his
lodgings was such that he would often arrive at the office before the
appointed hour. He asked thirty shillings a week, and Denry in a mood of
generosity gave him thirty-one. He gave Denry his whole life, and put a
meticulous order into the establishment. Denry secretly thought him a
miracle, but up at the club at Porthill he was content to call him "the
human machine." "I wind him up every Saturday night with a sovereign,
half a sovereign, and a shilling," said Denry, "and he goes for a week.
Compensated balance adjusted for all temperatures. No escapement.
Jewelled in every hole. Ticks in any position. Made in England."

This jocularity of Denry's was a symptom that Denry's spirits were
rising. The bearded youth was seen oftener in the streets behind his
mule and his dog. The adventurer had, indeed, taken to the road again.
After an emaciating period he began once more to stouten. He was the
image of success. He was the picturesque card, whom everybody knew and
everybody had pleasure in greeting.

In some sort he was rather like the flag on the Town Hall.

And then a graver misfortune threatened.

It arose out of the fact that, though Denry was a financial genius, he
was in no se