The long vacation saunters on towards term-time like an idle riververy leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppysaunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade ofhis penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrumentinto his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk anyill will, but he must do something, and it must be something of anunexciting nature, which will lay neither his physical nor hisintellectual energies under too heavy contribution. He finds thatnothing agrees with him so well as to make little gyrations on oneleg of his stool, and stab his desk, and gape.

　　Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has takenout a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and Mr.

　　Guppy's two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy andMr. Richard Carstone divide the dignity of the office. But Mr.

　　Carstone is for the time being established in Kenge's room, whereatMr. Guppy chafes. So exceedingly that he with biting sarcasminforms his mother, in the confidential moments when he sups withher off a lobster and lettuce in the Old Street Road, that he isafraid the office is hardly good enough for swells, and that if hehad known there was a swell coming, he would have got it painted.

　　Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of astool in Kenge and Carboy's office of entertaining, as a matter ofcourse, sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every suchperson wants to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, orwherefore, he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On thestrength of these profound views, he in the most ingenious mannertakes infinite pains to counterplot when there is no plot, andplays the deepest games of chess without any adversary.

　　It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, tofind the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyceand Jarndyce, for he well knows that nothing but confusion andfailure can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself toa third saunterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy'soffice, to wit, Young Smallweed.

　　Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke ChickWeed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boyis much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something underfifteen and an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understoodto entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in theneighbourhood of Chancery Lane and for her sake to have broken offa contract with another lady, to whom he had been engaged someyears. He is a town-made article, of small stature and weazenfeatures, but may be perceived from a considerable distance bymeans of his very tall hat. To become a Guppy is the object of hisambition. He dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is patronized),talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on him. He ishonoured with Mr. Guppy's particular confidence and occasionallyadvises him, from the deep wells of his experience, on difficultpoints in private life.

　　Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning aftertrying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy,and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with anotion of cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched foreffervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two officialtumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propoundsfor Mr. Smallweed's consideration the paradox that the more youdrink the thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a state of hopeless languor.

　　While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln's Inn,surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomesconscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walkbelow and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At thesame time, a low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressedvoice cries, "Hip! Gup-py!""Why, you don't mean it!" says Mr. Guppy, aroused. "Small! Here'sJobling!" Small's head looks out of window too and nods toJobling.

　　"Where have you sprung up from?" inquires Mr. Guppy.

　　"From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it anylonger. I must enlist. I say! I wish you'd lend me half a crown.

　　Upon my soul, I'm hungry."Jobling looks hungry and also has the appearance of having run toseed in the market-gardens down by Deptford.

　　"I say! Just throw out half a crown if you have got one to spare.

　　I want to get some dinner.""Will you come and dine with me?" says Mr. Guppy, throwing out thecoin, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly.

　　"How long should I have to hold out?" says Jobling.

　　"Not half an hour. I am only waiting here till the enemy goes,returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head.

　　"What enemy?""A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait?""Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime?" says MrJobling.

　　Smallweed suggests the law list. But Mr. Jobling declares withmuch earnestness that he "can't stand it.""You shall have the paper," says Mr. Guppy. "He shall bring itdown. But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on ourstaircase and read. It's a quiet place."Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagaciousSmallweed supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally dropshis eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against hisbecoming disgusted with waiting and making an untimely departure.

　　At last the enemy retreats, and then Smallweed fetches Mr. Joblingup.

　　"Well, and how are you?" says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with him.

　　"So, so. How are you?"Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Joblingventures on the question, "How is SHE?" This Mr. Guppy resents asa liberty, retorting, "Jobling, there ARE chords in the humanmind--" Jobling begs pardon.

　　"Any subject but that!" says Mr. Guppy with a gloomy enjoyment ofhis injury. "For there ARE chords, Jobling--"Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.

　　During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of thedinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper,"Return immediately." This notification to all whom it mayconcern, he inserts in the letter-box, and then putting on the tallhat at the angle of inclination at which Mr. Guppy wears his,informs his patron that they may now make themselves scarce.

　　Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining-house,of the class known among its frequenters by the denomination slap-bang, where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, issupposed to have made some impression on the susceptible Smallweed,of whom it may be remarked that he is a weird changeling to whomyears are nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuriesof owlish wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if hemust have lain there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, hasSmallweed; and he drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and hisneck is stiff in his collar; and he is never to be taken in; and heknows all about it, whatever it is. In short, in his bringing uphe has been so nursed by Law and Equity that he has become a kindof fossil imp, to account for whose terrestrial existence it isreported at the public offices that his father was John Doe and hismother the only female member of the Roe family, also that hisfirst long-clothes were made from a blue bag.

　　Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in thewindow of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdantbaskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready forthe spit, Mr. Smallweed leads the way. They know him there anddefer to him. He has his favourite box, he bespeaks all thepapers, he is down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more thanten minutes afterwards. It is of no use trying him with anythingless than a full-sized "bread" or proposing to him any joint in cutunless it is in the very best cut. In the matter of gravy he isadamant.

　　Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dreadexperience, Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day'sbanquet, turning an appealing look towards him as the waitressrepeats the catalogue of viands and saying "What do YOU take,Chick?" Chick, out of the profundity of his artfulness, preferring"veal and ham and French beans--and don't you forget the stuffing,Polly" (with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye), Mr. Guppy andMr. Jobling give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-halfare superadded. Quickly the waitress returns bearing what isapparently a model of the Tower of Babel but what is really a pileof plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving ofwhat is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity into hisancient eye and winks upon her. Then, amid a constant coming in,and going out, and running about, and a clatter of crockery, and arumbling up and down of the machine which brings the nice cuts fromthe kitchen, and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down thespeaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts thathave been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints,cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere in which thesoiled knives and tablecloths seem to break out spontaneously intoeruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the legal triumvirateappease their appetites.

　　Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment mightrequire. His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of aglistening nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade.

　　The same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, andparticularly at the seams. He has the faded appearance of agentleman in embarrassed circumstances; even his light whiskersdroop with something of a shabby air.

　　His appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for somelittle time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of vealand ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midwayin theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. "Thank you, Guppy,"says Mr. Jobling, "I really don't know but what I WILL takeanother."Another being brought, he falls to with great goodwill.

　　Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is halfway through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull athis pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out hislegs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow ofcontentment, Mr. Guppy says, "You are a man again, Tony!""Well, not quite yet," says Mr. Jobling. "Say, just born.""Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summercabbage?""Thank you, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling. "I really don't know butwhat I WILL take summer cabbage."Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Smallweed) of"Without slugs, Polly!" And cabbage produced.

　　"I am growing up, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife andfork with a relishing steadiness.

　　"Glad to hear it.""In fact, I have just turned into my teens," says Mr. Jobling.

　　He says no more until he has performed his task, which he achievesas Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs, thus getting over theground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily bya veal and ham and a cabbage.

　　"Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, "what would you recommend aboutpastry?""Marrow puddings," says Mr. Smallweed instantly.

　　"Aye, aye!" cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. "You're there,are you? Thank you, Mr. Guppy, I don't know but what I WILL take amarrow pudding."Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds in apleasant humour that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed,by command of Mr. Smallweed, "three Cheshires," and to those "threesmall rums." This apex of the entertainment happily reached, Mr.

　　Jobling puts up his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own sideof the box to himself), leans against the wall, and says, "I amgrown up now, Guppy. I have arrived at maturity.""What do you think, now," says Mr. Guppy, "about--you don't mindSmallweed?""Not the least in the worid. I have the pleasure of drinking hisgood health.""Sir, to you!" says Mr. Smallweed.

　　"I was saying, what do you think NOW," pursues Mr. Guppy, "ofenlisting?""Why, what I may think after dinner," returns Mr. Jobling, "is onething, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is anotherthing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, Whatam I to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know," says Mr.

　　Jobling, pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixturein an English stable. "Ill fo manger. That's the French saying,and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Ormore so."Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so.""If any man had told me," pursues Jobling, "even so lately as whenyou and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove overto see that house at Castle Wold--"Mr. Smallweed corrects him--Chesney Wold.

　　"Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) Ifany man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the presenttime as I literally find myself, I should have--well, I should havepitched into him," says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-waterwith an air of desperate resignation; "I should have let fly at hishead.""Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,"remonstrates Mr. Guppy. "You were talking about nothing else inthe gig.""Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, "I will not deny it. I was on the wrongside of the post. But I trusted to things coming round."That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in theirbeing beaten round, or worked round, but in their "coming" round!

　　As though a lunatic should trust in the world's "coming"triangular!

　　"I had confident expectations that things would come round and beall square," says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression andperhaps of meaning too. "But I was disappointed. They never did.

　　And when it came to creditors making rows at the office and topeople that the office dealt with making complaints about dirtytrifles of borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion.

　　And of any new professional connexion too, for if I was to give areference to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up.

　　Then what's a fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way andliving cheap down about the market-gardens, but what's the use ofliving cheap when you have got no money? You might as well livedear.""Better," Mr. Smallweed thinks.

　　"Certainly. It's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskershave been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it," says Mr.

　　Jobling. "They are great weaknesses--Damme, sir, they are great.

　　Well," proceeds Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, "what can a fellow do, I ask you, BUT enlist?"Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state what, inhis opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressivemanner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwisethan as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart.

　　"Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, "myself and our mutual friend Smallweed--"Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, "Gentlemen both!" and drinks.

　　"--Have had a little conversation on this matter more than oncesince you--""Say, got the sack!" cries Mr. Jobling bitterly. "Say it, Guppy.

　　You mean it.""No-o-o! Left the Inn," Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests.

　　"Since you left the Inn, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy; "and I havementioned to our mutual friend Smallweed a plan I have latelythought of proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer?""I know there is such a stationer," returns Mr. Jobling. "He wasnot o............