His white apron flaps languidly in the air, his head gradually droops upon his breast, he takes very long winks with both eyes at once; even he is unable to withstand the soporific influence of the place, and is gradually falling asleep.

But now, he starts into full wakefulness, recoils a step or two, and gazes out before him with eager wildness in his eye.

Is it a job, or a boy at marbles?
Does he see a ghost, or hear an organ?
No; sight more unwonted still--there is a butterfly in the square--a real, live butterfly! astray from flowers and sweets, and fluttering among the iron heads of the dusty area railings.
But if there were not many matters immediately without the doors of Cheeryble Brothers, to engage the attention or distract the thoughts of the young clerk, there were not a few within, to interest and amuse him.
There was scarcely an object in the place, animate or inanimate, which did not partake in some degree of the scrupulous method and punctuality of Mr Timothy Linkinwater.

Punctual as the counting-house dial, which he maintained to be the best time-keeper in London next after the clock of some old, hidden, unknown church hard by, (for Tim held the fabled goodness of that at the Horse Guards to be a pleasant fiction, invented by jealous West-enders,) the old clerk performed the minutest actions of the day, and arranged the minutest articles in the little room, in a precise and regular order, which could not have been exceeded if it had actually been a real glass case, fitted with the choicest curiosities.
Paper, pens, ink, ruler, sealing-wax, wafers, pounce-box, string-box, fire-box, Tim's hat, Tim's scrupulously-folded gloves, Tim's other coat--looking precisely like a back view of himself as it hung against the wall--all had their accustomed inches of space.

Except the clock, there was not such an accurate and unimpeachable instrument in existence as the little thermometer which hung behind the door.