“I am afraid you are right, Mr. Jonson,” said I, in a tone of self-humiliation.
“Never mind,” replied the compassionate Job, “we are all born ignorant—knowledge is not learnt in a day. A few of the most common and necessary words in our St. Giles’s Greek, I shall be able to teach you before night; and I will, beforehand, prepare the old lady for seeing a young hand in the profession. As I must disguise you before we go, and that cannot well be done here, suppose you dine with me at my lodgings.”
“I shall be too happy,” said I, not a little surprised at the offer.
“I am in Charlotte-street, Bloomsbury, No.—. You must ask for me by the name of Captain Douglas,” said Job, with dignity, “and we’ll dine at five, in order to have time for your preliminary initiation.”
“With all my heart,” said I; and Mr. Job Jonson then rose, and reminding me of my promise of secrecy, took his departure.
CHAPTER LXXXI.
Pectus praeceptis format amicis.—Horace.
Est quodam prodire tenus, si non datur ultra.—Horace.
With all my love of enterprise and adventure, I cannot say that I should have particularly chosen the project before me for my evening’s amusement, had I been left solely to my own will; but Glanville’s situation forbade me to think of self, and so far from shrinking at the danger to which I was about to be exposed, I looked forward with the utmost impatience to the hour of rejoining Jonson.