Here is a funny thing, but it is also a fact. The very day that the Canny Scotia was to sail, Archie took Harry with him, and the two started through the city, and bore up for the shop of Mr Glorie.
They entered. It was like entering a gloomy vault. Nothing was altered. There stood the rows on rows of dusty bottles, with their dingy gilt labels; the dusty mahogany drawers; the morsel of railinged desk with its curtain of dirty red; there were the murky windows with their bottles of crusted yellows and reds; and up there the identical spider still working away at his dismal web, still living in hopes apparently of some day being able to catch a fly.
The melancholy-looking new apprentice, who had doubtless paid the new premium, a long lantern-jawed lad with great eyes in hollow sockets, and a blue-grey face, stood looking at the pair of them.
“Where is your master, Mr—?”
“Mr Myers, sir. Myers is my name.”
“Where is Mr Glorie, Mr Myers?”
“D’ye wish to see’m, sir?”
“Don’t it seem like it?” cried Harry, who for the life of him “could not help putting his oar in.”
“Master’s at the back, among—the soap.”
He droned out the last words in such a lugubrious tone that Archie felt sorry for him.