“That’s me, that’s me!” cried Searle with all his seriousness.
“And now,” said our friend, “I believe I can’t drop any further.”
“My dear fellow”—and Searle clasped his hand and shook it—“I too am at the very bottom of the hole.”
Mr. Rawson lifted his eyebrows. “Well, sir, there’s a difference between sitting in such a pleasant convenience and just trudging behind it!”
“Yes—there’s a shade. But I’m at my last gasp, Mr. Rawson.”
“I’m at my last penny, sir.”
“Literally, Mr. Rawson?”
Mr. Rawson shook his head with large loose bitterness. “I’ve almost come to the point of drinking my beer and buttoning my coat figuratively; but I don’t talk in figures.”
Fearing the conversation might appear to achieve something like gaiety at the expense of Mr. Rawson’s troubles, I took the liberty of asking him, with all consideration, how he made a living.
“I don’t make a living,” he answered with tearful eyes; “I can’t make a living. I’ve a wife and three children—and all starving, sir. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve come to. I sent my wife to her mother’s, who can ill afford to keep her, and came to Oxford a week ago, thinking I might pick up a few half-crowns by showing people about the colleges. But it’s no use. I haven’t the assurance. I don’t look decent. They want a nice little old man with black gloves and a clean shirt and a silver-headed stick. What do I look as if I knew about Oxford, sir?”