The novelty of our life in London soon began to wear off. For the first
week or so I thought I never should grow weary of the wonderful streets
and shops and crowds of people. And the work at the office, while it
was fresh, appeared--especially when enlivened by the pranks of my
fellow-clerks--more of a game than downright earnest. My eight
shillings a week, too, seemed a princely allowance to begin with, and
even the lodging-house in Beadle Square was tolerable.
But after a month or so a fellow gets wonderfully toned down in his
notions. I soon began to pine inwardly for an occasional escape from
the murky city to the fresh air of the country. The same routine of
work hour after hour, day after day, week after week, grew tame and
wearisome. And I began to find out that even the lordly income of eight
shillings a week didn't make the happy possessor, who had to clothe and
feed himself, actually a rich man; while as for Mrs Nash's, the place
before long became detestable. The fact is, that I, with no cheerier
home than Brownstroke to look back on, became desperately homesick
before three months in London were over; and but for my friend Smith, I
might have deserted entirely.
However, Smith, solemn as he was, wouldn't let me get quite desperate.
He was one of those even-tempered sort of fellows who never gush either
with joy or sorrow, but take things as they come, and because they never
let themselves get elated, rarely let themselves get down.
"Fred," he said to me one day, when I was in the dumps, "what's wrong?"
"Oh, I don't know," said I, "I'm getting rather sick of London, I
think."
"Not much use getting sick of it yet," said he. "Time enough in fifty
years."
"Jack," said I, "if I thought I had all my life to live here, I should
run away."
"You're a duffer, old man. Aren't you getting on at Hawk Street, then?"
"Oh yes, well enough, but it's most fearfully slow. The same thing
every day."