The work's not so hard--the pay is better: the vittels incompyrably supearor.

I have but to clean my things, and run my errints, and you put clothes on my back, and meat in my mouth.

Sir! Mr.
Bullwig! an't I right?
shall I quit MY station and sink--that is to say, rise--to YOURS ?" Bullwig was violently affected; a tear stood in his glistening i.
"Yellowplush," says he, seizing my hand, "you ARE right.

Quit not your present occupation; black boots, clean knives, wear plush, all your life, but don't turn literary man.

Look at me.