'Server?"

"My boy," said Mr. Appleyard, speaking slowly, "when you've been
mewed up with newspapers eighteen hours a day for six days a week,
you can do without 'em for a morning. Take 'em away. I want to
forget the smell of 'em."

Solomon, having assured himself that the party in the perambulator
was still breathing, crossed his legs and lit his pipe.

"Hezekiah!"

The exclamation had been wrung from Solomon Appleyard by the
approach of a stout, short man clad in a remarkably ill-fitting
broad-cloth suit.

"What, Sol, my boy?"

"It looked like you," said Solomon. "And then I said to myself:
'No; surely it can't be Hezekiah; he'll be at chapel.'"

"You run about," said Hezekiah, addressing a youth of some four
summers he had been leading by the hand. "Don't you go out of my
sight; and whatever you do, don't you do injury to those new
clothes of yours, or you'll wish you'd never been put into them.
The truth is," continued Hezekiah to his friend, his sole surviving
son and heir being out of earshot, "the morning tempted me.
'Tain't often I get a bit of fresh air."

"Doing well?"