Mr. Christopher Plaskwith was a short, stout man, in drab-coloured breeches, and gaiters to match; a black coat and waistcoat; he wore a large watch-chain, with a prodigious bunch of seals, alternated by small keys and old-fashioned mourning-rings. His complexion was pale and sodden, and his hair short, dark, and sleek. The bookseller valued himself on a likeness to Buonaparte; and affected a short, brusque, peremptory manner, which he meant to be the indication of the vigorous and decisive character of his prototype.
“So you are the young gentleman Mr. Roger Morton recommends?” Here Mr. Plaskwith took out a huge pocketbook, slowly unclasped it, staring hard at Philip, with what he designed for a piercing and penetrative survey.
“This is the letter—no! this is Sir Thomas Champerdown’s order for fifty copies of the last Mercury, containing his speech at the county meeting. Your age, young man?—only sixteen?—look older;—that’s not it—that’s not it—and this is it!—sit down. Yes, Mr. Roger Morton recommends you—a relation—unfortunate circumstances—well educated—hum! Well, young man, what have you to say for yourself?”
“Sir?”
“Can you cast accounts?—know bookkeeping?”
“I know something of algebra, sir.”
“Algebra!—oh, what else?”
“French and Latin.”
“Hum!—may be useful. Why do you wear your hair so long?—look at mine. What’s your name?”
“Philip Morton.”
“Mr. Philip Morton, you have an intelligent countenance—I go a great deal by countenances. You know the terms?—most favourable to you. No premium—I settle that with Roger. I give board and bed—find your own washing. Habits regular—‘prenticeship only five years; when over, must not set up in the same town. I will see to the indentures. When can you come?”
“When you please, sir.”
“Day after to-morrow, by six o’clock coach.”
“But, sir,” said Philip, “will there be no salary? something, ever so small, that I could send to my another?”
“Salary, at sixteen?—board and bed—no premium! Salary, what for? ‘Prentices have no salary!—you will have every comfort.”
“Give me less comfort, that I may give my mother more;—a little money, ever so little, and take it out of my board: I can do with one meal a day, sir.”
The bookseller was moved: he took a huge pinch of snuff out of his waistcoat pocket, and mused a moment. He then said, as he re-examined Philip:
“Well, young man, I’ll tell you what we will do. You shall come here first upon trial;—see if we like each other before we sign the indentures; allow you, meanwhile, five shillings a week. If you show talent, will see if I and Roger can settle about some little allowance. That do, eh?”
“I thank you, sir, yes,” said Philip, gratefully. “Agreed, then. Follow me—present you to Mrs. P.” Thus saying, Mr. Plaskwith returned the letter to the pocket-book, and the pocket-book to the pocket; and, putting his arms behind his coat tails, threw up his chin, and strode through the passage into a small parlour, that locked upon a small garden. Here, seated round the table, were a thin lady, with a squint (Mrs. Plaskwith), two little girls, the Misses Plaskwith, also with squints, and pinafores; a young man of three or four-and-twenty, in nankeen trousers, a little the worse for washing, and a black velveteen jacket and waistcoat. This young gentleman was very much freckled; wore his hair, which was dark and wiry, up at one side, down at the other; had a short thick nose; full lips; and, when close to him, smelt of cigars. Such was Mr. Plimmins, Mr. Plaskwith’s factotum, foreman in the shop, assistant editor to the Mercury. Mr. Plaskwith formally went the round of the introduction; Mrs. P. nodded her head; the Misses P. nudged each other, and grinned; Mr. Plimmins passed his hand through his hair, glanced at the glass, and bowed very politely.
“Now, Mrs. P., my second cup, and give Mr. Morton his dish of tea. Must be tired, sir—hot day. Jemima, ring—no, go to the stairs and call out ‘more buttered toast.’ That’s the shorter way—promptitude is my rule in life, Mr. Morton. Pray-hum, hum—have you ever, by chance, studied the biography of the great Napoleon Buonaparte?”
Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and kicked Philip under the table. Philip looked fiercely at the foreman, and replied, sullenly, “No, sir.”
“That’s a pity. Napoleon Buonaparte was a very great man,—very! You have seen his cast?—there it is, on the dumb waiter! Look at it! see a likeness, eh?”
“Likeness, sir? I never saw Napoleon Buonaparte.”
“Never saw him! No, just look round the room. Who does that bust put you in mind of? who does it resemble?”
Here Mr. Plaskwith rose, and placed himself in an attitude; his hand in his waistcoat, and his face pensively inclined towards the tea-table. “Now fancy me at St. Helena; this table is the ocean. Now, then, who is that cast like, Mr. Philip Morton?”
“I suppose, sir, it is like you!”
“Ah, that it is! strikes every one! Does it not, Mrs. P., does it not? And when you have known me longer, you will find a moral similitude—a moral, sir! Straightforward—short—to the point—bold—determined!”
“Bless me, Mr. P.!” said Mrs. Plaskwith, very querulously, “do make haste with your tea; the young gentleman, I suppose, wants to go home, and the coach passes in a quarter of an hour.”
“Have you seen Kean in Richard the Third, Mr. Morton?” asked Mr. Plimmins.
“I have never seen a play.”
“Never seen a play! How very odd!”
“Not at all odd, Mr. Plimmins,” said the stationer. “Mr. Morton has known troubles—so hand him the hot toast.”
Silent and morose, but rather disdainful than sad, Philip listened to the babble round him, and observed the ungenial characters with which he was to associate. He cared not to please (that, alas! had never been especially his study); it was enough for him if he could see, stretching to his mind’s eye beyond the walls of that dull room, the long vistas into fairer fortune. At sixteen, what sorrow can freeze the Hope, or what prophetic fear whisper, “Fool!” to the Ambition? He would bear back into ease and prosperity, if not into affluence and station, the dear ones left at home. From the eminence of five shillings a week, he looked over the Promised Land.
At length, Mr. Plaskwith, pulling out his watch, said, “Just in time to catch the coach; make your bow and be off—smart’s the word!” Philip rose, took up his hat, made a stiff bow that included the whole group, and vanished with his host.
Mrs. Plaskwith breathed more easily when he was gone. “I never seed a more odd, fierce, ill-bred-looking young man! I declare I am quite afraid of him. What an eye he has!”
“Uncommonly dark; what I may say gipsy-like,” said Mr. Plimmins.
“He! he! You always do say such good things, Plimmins. Gipsy-like, he! he! So he is! I wonder if he can tell fortunes?”
“He’ll be long before he has a fortune of his own to tell. Ha! ha!” said Plimmins.
“He! he! how very good! you are so pleasant, Plimmins.”
While these strictures on his appearance were still going on, Philip had already ascended the roof of the coach; and, waving his hand, with the condescension of old times, to his future master, was carried away by the “Express” in a whirlwind of dust.
“A very warm evening, sir,” said