Toby left the room.
His father cut him off with a shilling, and bade him leave the paternal roof, which he did.
Here endeth the first Book of Tobias.
In London Toby had a hard time. He went through the mill, and did not like it. He sounded the depths of the London ocean, which contains all kinds of disagreeable things which appear not on the surface--fireless grates, abusive landladies, obdurate editors, well-worn clothing. Oh, it was certainly an unpleasant experience, but Toby sank to rise, and never forgot, when wandering amid this submarine wreckage of London, that he was a gentleman and had one definite object in view.
If a man keep these two things in mind, they are bladders which will float him to the surface among successful crafts.
Therefore Tobias Clendon rose--slowly at first, then rapidly.
He wrote articles about the wreckage amid which he wandered, and had them accepted by editors, who paid him as little as they could. Afterwards he scribbled comic songs for opulent music-hall artistes, which contained the latest ideas of the day and a superfluity of slang. These efforts brought him into contact with the theatrical profession, which is renowned for its modesty, and he put new wine into old bottles by patching up old burlesques. In this cobbling he was very successful, and what with one thing and another, he got on capitally. From burlesques he advanced to little curtain raisers; he wrote short abusive stories for charitably-minded society papers, scathing articles on books by celebrated writers, in which he proved conclusively that they did not know their business as novelists, and altogether became a sort of literary Autolycus, being a picker-up of unconsidered trifles in the literary line. This brought him in a good income, and in a few years he actually could face his bankers without blushing. Then he took a holiday, and during such holiday went to Marsh-on-the-Sea, where he met Miss Valpy, who reminded him about his father, and then----
"I am," said Toby, sententiously, "a prodigal son. I have lived in a far country, and eaten husks with London swine. Unlike the young man, however, I have risen above the profession of swineherd. I have become friends with Dives, and he has bidden me to feasts where I have fared sumptuously. The prodigal son began with money and ended with swine. I began with swine and end now with money. This is a distinct improvement on the old parable; but now 'I will arise and go to my father.' I'm afraid he won't kill the fatted calf, but I don't particularly mind as I detest veal; it's indigestible. He won't fall on my neck because he's not a demonstrative old gentleman, but still I'll go, especially as there is no dear brother to make things unpleasant. My Lares and Penates I will collect, and the country of my fathers will see me once more."
With this idea in his mind, Toby, who had left home in a third-class carriage, returned in a first-class, and was puffed up accordingly. With all such pomposity, however, he took a common sense view of things with regard to the reception committee, and walked to the vicarage with a becoming air of humility. He had left his father grubbing among relics of Fust and Caxton, and on his return found him still grubbing--a little older looking, a little dryer--but still stranded among rare folios of the middle ages. Toby saluted this paternal ghoul, and was received kindly, the ghoul having a heart concealed somewhere in his anatomy.
"I am glad to see you again, Tobias," said Clendon père, with marked cordiality. "I am a clergyman, and you offended me by not making the profession hereditary. However, I am also a father, and I have missed you very much, my boy--very much indeed--shake hands."