“Oh, Jenny! that is not like you to refuse me such a trifle.  I would not disoblige you so.”

“I didn’t refuse,” said Jenny, making for the door; “I only said ‘no’ once or twice—­we don’t call that refusing;” but as she went out of the door she turned sharp as if to catch Robinson’s face off its guard; and her gray eye dwelt on him with one of those demure, inexplicable looks her sex can give all ab extra—­seeing all, revealing nothing.

She returned with her face on fire.  “That is what I get for taking your place!”

“What is the matter?”

“That impudent young villain wanted to kiss me.”

“Oh! is that all?”

“No! it is not all; he said I was the prettiest girl in Sydney” (with an appearance of rising indignation).

“Well! but, Jenny, that is no news, I could have told him that.”

“Then why did you never tell me?”

“I thought by your manner—­you knew it.”

Having tried to propitiate the foe thus, Robinson lost no more time, but went upstairs and asked Mr. Miles for the trifle due to him as wages.  Mr. Miles was very sorry, but he had been cleaned out at his friend Yates’s—­had not a shilling left and no hopes of any for a fortnight to come.

“Then, sir,” said Robinson doggedly, “I hope you will allow me to go into the town and try and make a little for myself, just enough to pay my traveling expenses.

“By all means,” was the reply; “tell me if you succeed—­and I’ll borrow a sovereign of you.”

Out went Robinson into the town of Sydney.  He got into a respectable street, and knocked at a good house with a green door.  He introduced himself to the owner as a first-rate painter and engrainer, and offered to turn this door into a mahogany, walnut, oak or what-not door.  “The house is beautiful, all but the door,” said sly Tom; “it is blistered.”

“I am quite content with it as it is,” was the reply in a rude, supercilious tone.

Robinson went away discomfited; he went doggedly down the street begging them all to have their doors beautified, and wincing at every refusal.  At last he found a shopkeeper who had no objection, but doubted Robinson’s capacity.  “Show me what you can do,” said he slyly, “and then I’ll talk to you.”

“Send for the materials,” replied the artist, “and give me a board and I’ll put half a dozen woods on the face of it.”

“And pray,” said the man, “why should I lay out my money in advertising you?  No! you bring me a specimen, and if it is all right I’ll give you the job.”

“That is a bargain,” replied Robinson, and went off.  “How hard they make honesty to a poor fellow,” muttered he bitterly, “but I’ll beat them,” and he clinched his teeth.

He went to a pawnbroker and pawned the hat off his head—­it was a new one; then for a halfpenny he bought a sheet of brown paper and twisted it into a workman’s cap; he bought the brushes and a little paint and a little varnish, and then he was without a penny again.  He went to a wheelwright’s and begged the loan of a small valueless worm-eaten board he saw kicking about, telling him what it was for.  The wealthy wheelwright eyed him with scorn.  “Should I ever see it again?” asked he ironically.