Charley started at the look of the shrunken, yellow face; for if ever death had set his seal, it was on that haggard parchment.

The tailor's yellow eyes ran from Charley's face to his clothes.
"I knew they'd fit," he said, with a snarl.

"Drove me hard, too!" Charley had an inspiration.

He opened the halfdoor, and entered.
"Do you want help ?" he said, fixing his eyes on the tailor's, steady and persistent.
"What's the good of wanting--I can't get it," was the irritable reply, as he uncrossed his legs.
Charley took the iron out of his hand.

"I'll press, if you'll show me how," he said.
"I don't want a fiddling ten-minutes' help like that." "It isn't fiddling.