CHAPTER VI.
MY SMOKING-TABLE.
[Illustration] Had it not been for a bootblack at Charing Cross I should probably never have bought the smoking-table.

I had to pass that boy every morning.

In vain did I scowl at him, or pass with my head to the side.

He always pointed derisively (as I thought) at my boots.

Probably my boots were speckless, but that made no difference; he jeered and sneered.