He got to the end of a sentence or two, when his fingers moved about for the letter; and then his mind conceived a necessity for turning to the directory, for which he rang the bell.

The great red book was brought into his room by a youthful clerk, who waited by, while his master, unaware of his presence, tracked a name with his forefinger.

It stopped at Pole, Samuel Bolton; and a lurking smile was on the merchant's face as he read the name: a smile of curious meaning, neither fresh nor sad; the meditative smile of one who looks upon an afflicted creature from whom he is aloof.

After a lengthened contemplation of this name, he said, with a sigh, "Poor Chump! I wonder whether he's here, too." A search for the defunct proved that he was out of date.

Mr.Pole thrust his hand to the bell that he might behold poor Chump in an old directory that would call up the blotted years.
"I am here, sir," said his clerk, who had been holding deferential watch at a few steps from the table.
"What do you do here then, sir, all this time ?" "I waited, sir, because--" "You waste and dawdle away twenty or thirty minutes, when you ought to be doing your work.