“When house, and land, and money’s spent;
Then larning is most excellent”—­

and spared all the money he could scrape together to purchase books for me.

One day Mr. Crobble came into the office with an open letter in his hand.  “Here,”—­cried he, “I’ve received a remittance at last from that, German fellow—­two good bills on the first house in the city—­but I can’t make top nor tail of his rigmarole.  Do you know any chap among your acquaintance who can read German?”

“Not I,” replied Mr. Timmis.

“Will you allow me, Mr. Crobble?” said I, stepping forward.  “This letter is written in French, not German, Sir,” I observed.

“What’s the difference to me, Master Andrew; it might as well be in wild Irish, for the matter o’ that.”

“Andrew can read the lingo,” said my master.

“The devil he can!” exclaimed Mr. Crobble; “I dare say I shall be able to make it out,” said I; “and if not, Monsieur Dubois will be here; to-morrow morning, and you can have it by twelve o’clock, sir.”

“Ain’t that the ticket?” exclaimed Mr. Timmis, delighted at the surprise of his friend; “you don’t know how vastly clever we are, old fellow.”

Mr. Crobble, much gratified at this information, placed the letter in my hands; and, leaving me to take a lunch at Garraway’s with Mr. Timmis, I eagerly sat about my task—­and luckily it was not only plainly written, but the subject-matter by no means difficult, being rather complimentary than technical.  By the time they returned, I had not only translated, but made a fair copy of it, in my best hand.

“Come, that is clever,” said Mr. Crobble; “let me see, now, what shall I give you?”

“Nothing, Sir,” I promptly replied; “I am Mr. Timmis’s clerk—­and all that I know I owe to his kindness.”

I saw, with pleasure, that this compliment was not lost upon my master.

Mr. Crobble was really a gentleman in feeling, and therefore did not persist in offering me any remuneration; but as he left the office, he said, “I thank you, Mr. Andrew—­I shall not forget your services;” and departed evidently much pleased with my performance.

CHAPTER XIV.—­A Dilemma.

“Ee cawnt gow back, ’cause they locks the gates,”

“Well, can we go forward, then?”—­“Noa, ee cawnt, ’cause the roads are under water;”

“Ee cawnt gow back, ’cause they locks the gates,” said a bumpkin on the road-side to a Cockney-party in a one-horse chaise.

“Well, can we go forward, then?” demanded the anxious and wearied traveller.

“Noa, ee cawnt, ’cause the roads are under water;” replied the joskin, with a grin.

This was certainly a situation more ridiculous than interesting; and I smiled when I heard the story told, little suspecting that Fortune would one day throw me into a similar dilemina—­so blindly do we mortals hug ourselves in the supposed security of our tact and foresight.