He loves work.
The more I give him to do the better he likes it.

His cronies, who in raiment, manners, and tastes differ from him no more than a row of pins differs from a stray brother, regard a writing-chair as a mediaeval instrument of torture, and faint at the sight of ink.

They will put themselves to all kinds of physical and pecuniary inconvenience in order to avoid regular employment.

They are the tramps of the fashionable world.

But in vain do they sing to Dale of the joys of silk-hatted and patent-leather-booted vagabondage and deride his habits of industry; Dale turns a deaf ear to them and urges on his strenuous career.