"Hallo, young Grace," said Mr Jabez Rowle, as I was shown up one
evening into his room, to find him, snuff-box on the table and pen in
hand, reading away at his paper, and, as I entered, smiling with
satisfaction as he pounced upon a literal error, and marked it in the
margin. "How are you?"
I said I was quite well, and he pointed to several pen marks at the side
of the column.
"There's reading," he said contemptuously. "I'm ashamed of these daily
papers, that I am. Well, how are wheels and lathes and steam-engines,
eh? Bah! what a contemptible young sneak you were to leave so good a
business for oil and steam and steel-filings. I give you up now. Glad
to see you, though; sit down. Have a pinch or snuff?"
"No, thanks," I said, smiling.
"Humph! how you grow, you young dog; why, you'll soon be a man. Better
have a pinch; capital bit of snuff."