MARTIN RATTLER. QU7

wonder? If poor Mrs. Dorothy Grumbit were here
—ah! well, she’s gone, so it can’t be helped. Four
thousand !—dear me, who will make them? Do
you know ?”

This question was addressed to his youngest clerk,
who sat on the opposite side of the desk staring at
Mr. Jollyboy with that open impudence of expression
peculiar to young puppy-dogs whose masters are un-
usually indulgent.

“No, sir, I don’t,” said the clerk with a broad
grin.

Before the perplexed merchant could come at any
conclusion on this knotty subject, the door opened,
and Martin Rattler entered the room, followed by his
friend Barney O’Flannagan.

“You've come to the wrong room, friends,” said
Mr. Jollyboy with a benignant smile. “ My princi-
pal clerk engages men and pays wages. His office
is just opposite ; first door in the passage.”

“We don’t want to engage,” said Martin; “we
wish to speak with you, six.”

“Oh, beg pardon!” cried Mr. Jollyboy, leaping off
the stool with surprising agility for a man of his
years. “Come in this way. Pray be seated. Eh!
ah! surely [ve seen you before, my good fellow ?”

“Vis, sir, that ye have. I’ve sailed aboard your