"No," said Mr. Polly.

"It's very interesting, all this," said Johnson, folding up the half
sheet of paper and unfolding it. "I wish sometimes I had a business of
my own instead of a fixed salary. You'll have to keep books of
course."

"One wants to know where one is."

"I should do it all by double entry," said Johnson. "A little
troublesome at first, but far the best in the end."

"Lemme see that paper," said Mr. Polly, and took it with the feeling
of a man who takes a nauseating medicine, and scrutinised his cousin's
neat figures with listless eyes.

"Well," said Johnson, rising and stretching. "Bed! Better sleep on it,
O' Man."

"Right O," said Mr. Polly without moving, but indeed he could as well
have slept upon a bed of thorns.

He had a dreadful night. It was like the end of the annual holiday,
only infinitely worse. It was like a newly arrived prisoner's backward
glance at the trees and heather through the prison gates. He had to go
back to harness, and he was as fitted to go in harness as the ordinary
domestic cat. All night, Fate, with the quiet complacency, and indeed
at times the very face and gestures of Johnson, guided him towards
that undesired establishment at the corner near the station. "Oh
Lord!" he cried, "I'd rather go back to cribs. I _should_ keep my