“But as I was observing, Mr. Pennibacker, you have all the world before you,” said Mizzlemist.
“I quite feel that, sir, in the new profession that within this half-hour I have determined to adopt.”
“Why, sir, when you go to the bar”—began Mizzlemist.
“No, I’ve abandoned the thought. The bar’s too full. Bench can’t be lengthened to hold a thousandth part of us: and mustn’t sit in each other’s laps. So many, nine-tenths must die like spiders with nothing to spin. I thought of the army. But that’s going, sir; going, soon to be gone. Bless you, laurels are fast sinking from the camp to the kitchen. In a very little while, sir, and the cook will rob Cæsar of his wreath to flavour a custard.”
“Ha! ha! very good. Wait a little though,—humph?” cried Colonel Bones.
“I do not very fully grapple with your position,”—said Mizzlemist, hesitating.
“Don’t try, then, sir,” said Basil, “’twill only strain your intellect. Therefore, as I see all the usual avenues shut up—‘no thoroughfare’ writ over ’em—I shall strike out a road for myself. Meet a want, or make a want, that’s the motto, sir, for a new business?”
“Well, there really is something in that,” said Mizzlemist.
“Now, I intend to meet a want—a very craving want,” said Basil. “And with such benevolent determination, I purpose to start in life as a Comic Undertaker.”
“Good, devilish good!” and Bones rubbed his hands; and Mizzlemist stared.