CHAPTER XII.--Monsieur Dubois.

"I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!--but if he's a mind to
anything like a gemman, here's my card!"


The love-lorn Matthew had departed, no doubt unable to bear the sight of
that staircase whose boards no longer resounded with the slip-slap of the
slippers of that hypocritical beauty, "his Mary." With him, the romance
of the landing-place, and the squad, had evaporated; and I had no
sympathies, no pursuits, in common with the remaining "boys"--my
newly-acquired post, too, nearly occupied the whole of my time, while my
desire of study increased with the acquisition of books, in which all my
pocket-money was expended.

One day, my good friend, Mr. Wallis, entered the office, followed by a
short, sharp-visaged man, with a sallow complexion; he was dressed in a
shabby frock, buttoned up to the throat--a rusty black silk neckerchief
supplying the place of shirt and collar.

He stood just within the threshold of the door, holding his napless hat
in his hand.

"Well, Wally, my buck," cried my master, extending his hand.

Mr. Wallis advanced close to his elbow, and spoke in a whisper; but I
observed, by the direction of his eyes, that the subject of his
communication was the stranger.