For this refection he pays ten cents, or five pence sterling (L0 0s 5d).
Half an hour later, the inhabitants of Bush Street observe the same
slender gentleman armed, like George Washington, with his little
hatchet, splitting kindling, and breaking coal for his fire.
He does this quasi-publicly upon the window-sill; but this is not to be
attributed to any love of notoriety, though he is indeed vain of his
prowess with the hatchet (which he persists in calling an axe),
and daily surprised at the perpetuation of his fingers. The reason is
this: that the sill is a strong, supporting beam, and that blows of the
same emphasis in other parts, of his room might knock the entire shanty
into hell. Thenceforth, for from three to four hours, he is engaged
darkly with an ink-bottle. Yet he is not blacking _his_ boots, for the
only pair that he possesses are innocent of lustre and wear the natural
hue of the material turned up with caked and venerable slush. The youngest
child of his landlady remarks several times a day, as this strange occupant
enters or quits the house, "Dere's de author." Can it be that this
bright-haired innocent has found the true clue to the mystery? The being
in question is, at least, poor enough to belong to that honorable craft.
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