to task when that young man deviated,—not always accidentally,—from certain rules of deportment laid down for him to follow in his earliest efforts to be a "little gentleman."
For example, when the two of them, after a rather impatient half-hour, observed Miss Emsdale step down from the trolley car at the corner above and head for the doorway through which they were peering, Mr. Bramble peremptorily said to Mr. Trotter:
"Go and brush your hair. You will find a brush at the back of the shop. Look sharp, now. She will be here in a jiffy."
And you will perhaps understand why Mr. Trotter paid absolutely no attention to him.
Miss Emsdale and the little violinist came in together. The latter's teeth were chattering, his cheeks were blue with the cold.
"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Bramble, blinking at de Bosky. Here was an unforeseen complication.
Miss Emsdale was resourceful. "I stopped in to inquire, Mr. Bramble,—this is Mr. Bramble, isn't it?—if you have a copy of—"
"Please close the door, Trotter, there's a good fellow," interrupted Mr. Bramble, frowning significantly at the young man.
"It is closed," said Mr. Trotter, tactlessly. He was lookingly intently, inquiringly into the blue eyes of Miss Emsdale.
"I closed it as I came in," chattered de Bosky.
"Oh, did you?" said Mr. Bramble. "People always leave it open. I am so in the habit of having people leave the door open that I never notice when they
