8 Paul's Further Progress, Growth, and Character Beneath the watching and attentive eyes of time, so far another major, Paul's slumbers gradually changed. More and more light broke in upon them, distincter and distincter dreams disturbed them, and accumulating crowd of objects and impressions swarmed about his rest, and so he passed from babyhood to childhood, and became a talking, walking, wondering, donby. On the downfall and banishment of Richards, the nursery may be said to have been put into commission, as a public department is sometimes, when no individual atlas can be found to support it. The commissioners were, of course, Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox, who devoted themselves to their duties with such astonishing ardour that Major Bagstock had every day some new reminder of his being forsaken, while Mr. Chick, bereft of domestic supervision, cast himself upon the gay world, dined at clubs and coffee-houses, smelt of smoke on three different occasions, went to the play by himself, and in short loosened, as Mrs. Chick once told him, every social bond and moral obligation. Yet in spite of his early promise, all this vigilance and care could not make little Paul a thriving boy. Naturally delicate, perhaps he pined and wasted after the dismissal of his nurse, and for a long time seemed but to await his opportunity of gliding through their hands and seeking his lost mother. This dangerous ground in his steeple-chase towards manhood passed. He still found it very rough riding, and was grievously beset by all the obstacles in his course. Every tooth was a breakneck fence, and every pimple in the measles a stone wall to him. He was down in every fit of the whooping-coff, and rolled upon and crushed by a whole field of small diseases that came trooping on each other's heels to prevent his getting up again. Some bird of prey got into his throat instead of the thrush, and the very chickens turning ferocious, if they have anything to do with that infant melody to which they lend their name, worried him like tiger-cats. The chill of Paul's christening had struck home, perhaps to some sensitive part of his nature, which could not recover itself in the cold shade of his father, but he was an unfortunate child from that day. Mrs. Wickham often said, she never see a deer, so put upon. Mrs. Wickham was a waiter's wife, which would seem equivalent to being any other man's widow, whose application for an engagement in Mr. Donby's service had been favorably considered, an account of the apparent impossibility of her having any followers or anyone to follow, and who, from within a day or two of Paul's sharp weaning, had been engaged as his nurse. Mrs. Wickham was a meek woman of a fair complexion, with her eyebrows always elevated, and her head always drooping, who was always ready to pity herself or to be pitied or to pity anybody else, and who had a surprising natural gift of viewing all subjects in an utterly forlorn and pitiable light, and bringing dreadful precedents to bear upon them, and deriving the greatest consolation from the exercise of that talent. It is hardly necessary to observe that no touch of this quality ever reached the magnificent knowledge of Mr. Donby. It would have been remarkable indeed if any had, when no one in the house, not even Mrs. Chick or Miss Tox, dared ever whisper to him that they had on any one occasion been the least reason for uneasiness in reference to little Paul. He had settled within himself that the child must necessarily pass through a certain routine of minor maladies, and that the sooner he did so the better. If he could have bought him off, or provided a substitute, as in the case of an unlucky drawing for the militia, he would have been glad to do so on liberal terms. But as this was not feasible, he merely wondered in his haughty manner, now and then what nature meant by it, and comforted himself with the reflection that there was another milestone passed upon the road, and that the great end of the journey lay so much the nearer. For the feeling uppermost in his mind now, and constantly intensifying and increasing in it as Paul grew older, was impatience. Impatience for the time to come when his visions of their united consequence and grandeur would be triumphantly realized. Some philosophers tell us that selfishness is at the root of our best loves and affections. Mr. Dombie's young child was, from the beginning, so distinctly important to him as a part of his own greatness, or, which is the same thing, of the greatness of Dombie and Son, that there is no doubt his parental affection might have been easily traced, like many a goodly superstructure of fair fame, to a very low foundation. But he loved his son with all the love he had. If there were a warm place in his frosty heart, his son occupied it. If its very hard surface could receive the impression of any image, the image of that son was there, though not so much as an infant, or as a boy, but as a grown man, the son of the firm. Therefore he was impatient to advance into the future, and to hurry over the intervening passages of his history. Though he had little or no anxiety about them, in spite of his love, feeling as if the boy had a charmed life, and must become the man with whom he held such constant communication in his thoughts, and for whom he planned and projected, as for an existing reality, every day. Thus Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was a pretty little fellow, though there was something one and wistful in his small face, that gave occasion to many significant shakes of Mrs. Wickham's head, and many long-drawn inspirations of Mrs. Wickham's breath. His temper gave abundant promise of being imperious in afterlife, and he had as hopeful an apprehension of his own importance, and the rightful subservience of all other things and persons to it, as heart could desire. He was childish and sportive enough at times, and not of a sullen disposition.  He would frequently be stricken with this precocious mood upstairs in the nursery, and would sometimes lapse into it suddenly, exclaiming that he was tired, even while playing with Florence or driving Miss Tox in single harness. But at no time did he fall into it so surely, as when his little chair being carried down into his father's room, he sat there with him after dinner by the fire. They were the strangest pair at such a time that ever firelight shone upon. Mr. Donby so erect and solemn, gazing at the Blair, his little image with an old, old face, peering into the red perspective with the fixed and raptor tension of a sage. Mr. Donby entertaining complicated worldly schemes and plans, the little image entertaining heaven knows what wild fancies, half-formed thoughts and wandering speculations. Mr. Donby stiff with starch and arrogance, the little image by inheritance, and in unconscious imitation, the two so very much alike, and yet so monstrously contrasted. On one of these occasions, when they had both been perfectly quiet for a long time, and Mr. Donby only knew that the child was awake by occasionally glancing at his eye where the bright fire was sparkling like a jewel, little Paul broke silence thus. Papa! What's money? The abrupt question had such immediate reference to the subject of Mr. Donby's thoughts that Mr. Donby was quite disconcerted. What is money, Paul? he answered. Money? Yes, said the child, laying his hands upon the elbows of his little chair, and turning the old face up towards Mr. Donby's. What is money? Mr. Donby was in a difficulty. He would have liked to give him some explanation involving the terms circulating medium, currency, depreciation of currency, paper, bullion, rates of exchange, value of precious metals in the market, and so forth, but looking down at the little chair and seeing what a long way down it was, he answered, Gold and silver and copper, guineas, shillings, apents, you know what they are. Oh, yes, I know what they are. I don't mean that, Papa. I mean, what's money after all? Heaven and earth, how old his face was as he turned it up again towards his father's. What is money after all? said Mr. Donby, backing his chair a little, that he might the better gaze in sheer amazement at the presumptuous atom that propounded such an inquiry. I mean, Papa, what can it do? And Paul, folding his arms, they were hardly long enough to fold, and looking at the fire, and up at him, and at the fire, and up at him again. Mr. Donby drew his chair back to its former place, and patted him on the head. You'll know better by and by, my man, he said, money, Paul can do anything. He took hold of the little hand, and beat it softly against one of his own, as he said so. But Paul got his hand free as soon as he could, and rubbing it gently to and fro on the elbow of his chair, as if his wit were in the palm, and he was sharpening it, and looking at the fire again, as though the fire had been his adviser and prompter, repeated after a short pause. Anything, Papa? Yes. Anything, almost, said Mr. Donby. Anything means everything, don't it, Papa? Asked his son, not observing or possibly not understanding the qualification. It includes it, yes, said Mr. Donby. Why didn't money save me my mama? Returned the child. It isn't cruel, is it? Cruel, said Mr. Donby, settling his neckcloth, and seeming to resent the idea. No, a good thing can't be cruel. If it's a good thing and can do anything, said the little fellow thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, I wonder why it didn't save me my mama. He didn't ask the question of his father this time. Perhaps he had seen, with a child's quickness, that it had already made his father uncomfortable. But he repeated the thought aloud as if it were quite an old one to him, and had troubled him very much. And sat, with his chin resting on his hand, still cogitating and looking for an explanation in the fire. Mr. Donby, having recovered from his surprise, not to say his alarm, for it was the very first occasion on which the child had ever broached the subject of his mother to him, though he had had him sitting by his side in the same manner evening after evening. Expounded to him how that money, though a very potent spirit, never to be disparaged on any account whatever, could not keep people alive whose time was come to die, and how that we must all die, unfortunately, even in the city, though we were never so rich. But how that money caused us to be honoured, feared, respected, courted, and admired, and made us powerful and glorious in the eyes of all men, and how that it could very often even keep off-death for a long time together. How, for example, it had secured to his mamar the services of Mr. Pilkins, by which he, Paul, had often profited himself, likewise of the great Dr. Parker Pepps whom he had never known, and how it could do all that could be done. This, with more to the same purpose, Mr. Donby instilled into the mind of his son, who listened attentively, and seemed to understand the greater part of what was said to him. It can't make me strong and quite well, either, papa, can it?" asked Paul, after a short silence, rubbing his tiny hands. Why, you are strong and quite well, returned Mr. Donby. Are you not? Oh, the age of the face that was turned up again, with an expression half of melancholy, half of slinus on it.  Florence is older than I am, but I'm not as strong and well as Florence, I know, returned the child, and I believe that when Florence was as little as me, she could play a great deal longer at a time without tiring herself. I'm so tired sometimes," said little Paul, warming his hands and looking in between the bars of the great, as if some ghostly puppet show were performing there. And my bones ache, so, Wickham says it's my bones, but I don't know what to do. Ah, but that's at night, said Mr. Donby, drawing his own chair closer to his son's, and laying his hand gently on his back. Little people should be tired at night for then they sleep well. Oh, it's not at night, Papa," returned the child. It's in the day. I lie down in Florence's lap, and she sings to me. At night I dream about such curious things. And he went on, warming his hands again, and thinking about them like an old man or a young goblin. Mr. Donby was so astonished, and so uncomfortable, and so perfectly at loss, how to pursue the conversation, that he could only sit looking at his son by the light of the fire, with his hand resting on his back, as if it were detained there by some magnetic attraction. Once he advanced his other hand, and turned the contemplative face towards his own for a moment. But it sought the fire again as soon as he released it, and remained addressed towards the flickering blaze, until the nurse appeared to summon him to bed. I want Florence to come for me, said Paul.  No, I won't, replied Paul, composing himself in his armchair again, like the master of the house. Invoking a blessing upon his innocence, Mrs. Wickham withdrew, and presently Florence appeared in her stead. The child immediately started up with sudden readiness and animation, and raised towards his father, and bidding him good night, a countenance so much brighter, so much younger, and so much more childlike altogether, that Mr. Dombie, while he felt greatly reassured by the change, was quite amazed at it. After they had left the room together, he thought he heard a soft voice singing. And remembering that Paul had said his sister sung to him, he had the curiosity to open the door and listen, and look after them. She was toiling up the great wide vacant staircase with him in her arms.  So they went toiling up, she singing all the way, and Paul sometimes crooning out a feeble accompaniment. Mr. Dombie looked after them until they reached the top of the staircase, not without halting to rest, by the way, and passed out of his sight. And then he still stood gazing upwards, until the dull rays of the moon glimmering in a melancholy manner through the dim skylight, sent him back to his room. Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox were convoked in council at dinner next day, and when the cloth was removed, Mr. Dombie opened the proceedings by requiring to be informed, without any gloss or reservation, whether there was anything to matter with Paul, and what Mr. Pulkins said about him. For the child is hardly, said Mr. Dombie, astout as I could wish. My dear Paul, return, Mrs. Chick, with your usual happy discrimination, which I am weak enough to envy you every time I am in your company, and so I think is Miss Tox. Oh, my dear, said Miss Tox softly, how could it be otherwise presumptuous as it is to aspire to such a level, still, if the bird of night may, but I'll not trouble Mr. Dombie with the sentiment, it merely relates to the bull bull. Mr. Dombie bent his head in stately recognition of the bull bulls as an old established body. With your usual happy discrimination, my dear Paul, presumed Mrs. Chick, you have hit the point at once. Our darling is altogether astout as we could wish. The fact is that his mind is too much for him. His soul is a great deal too large for his frame. I am sure the way in which that dear child talks, said Mrs. Chick, shaking her head, no one would believe. His expression's Lucretia only yesterday upon the subject of funerals. I'm afraid, said Mr. Dombie, interrupting her testily, that some of those persons upstairs suggest improper subjects to the child. He was speaking to me last night about his bones, said Mr. Dombie, laying an irritated stress upon the word. What on earth has anybody to do with the bones of my son? He is not a living skeleton, I suppose. Very far from it, said Mrs. Chick, with unspeakable expression. I hope so, returned her brother. Funerals again! Who talks to the child of funerals? We're not undertakers, or mutes, or gravediggers, I believe. Very far from it, interposed Mrs. Chick, with the same profound expression as before. Then who puts such things into his head, said Mr. Dombie. Really? I was quite dismayed and shocked last night. Who puts such things into his head, Louisa? My dear Paul, said Mrs. Chick, after a moment's silence. It is of no use inquiring. I do not think—I will tell you candidly that Wickham is a person of very cheerful spirit, or what one would call a— A daughter of Momus? Miss Tox softly suggested. Exactly so, said Mrs. Chick, which is exceedingly attentive and useful, and not at all presumptuous. Indeed, I never saw a more biddable woman. I would say that for her, if I was put upon my trial before a court of justice. Well, you are not put upon your trial before a court of justice, at present Louisa. Returned Mr. Dombie chafing, and therefore it don't matter. My dear Paul, said Mrs. Chick, in a warning voice. I must be spoken too kindly. Well, there is an end of me. At the same time a premonitory redness developed itself in Mrs. Chick's eyelids, which was an invariable sign of rain, unless the weather changed directly. I was inquiring Louisa, observed Mr. Dombie in an altered voice, and after a decent interval, about Paul's health and actual state. If the dear child, said Mrs. Chick, in the tone of one who was summing up what had been previously quite agreed upon, instead of saying it all for the first time, is a little weakened by that last attack, and is not in quite such vigorous health as we could wish. And if he has some temporary weakness in his system, and as occasionally seem about to lose, for the moment, the use of his, uh, Mrs. Chick was afraid to say limbs, after Mr. Dombie's recent objection to bones, and therefore waited for a suggestion from Ms. Tox, who, two to her office, hazarded, members. Members, repeated Mr. Dombie. I think the medical gentleman mentioned legs this morning, my dear Louisa. Did he not? said Ms. Tox. Why, of course, he did my love. Retorted Mrs. Chick, mildly reproachful. How can you ask me? You heard him. I say, if our dear Paul should lose, for the moment, the use of his legs, these are casualties common to many children at his time of life, and not to be prevented by any care or caution. As soon as you understand that, Paul, and admit that, the better. If you have any doubt, after the amount of care and caution and affection and self-sacrifice that has been bestowed upon little Paul, I should wish to refer the question to your medical attendant, or to any of your dependents in this house. Call Talonson. Said Mrs. Chick. I believe he has no prejudice in our favour, quite the contrary. I should wish to hear what accusation Talonson can make. Surely you must know, Louisa, observed Mr. Dombie, that I don't question your natural devotion to and regard for the future head of my house. I am glad to hear it, Paul. Said Mrs. Chick. But really, you are very odd, and sometimes talk very strangely, though without meaning it, I know. If your dear boy's soul is too much for his body, Paul, you should remember whose fault that is, who he takes after, I mean, and make the best of it. He's as like his papa as he can be. People have noticed it in the streets. Very beedle, I am informed, observed it, so long ago as at his christening. He's a very respectable man with children of his own. He ought to know. Mr. Pilkins saw Paul this morning, I believe, said Mr. Dombie. Yes, he did, returned his sister. Miss Tox and myself were present. Miss Tox and myself are always present. We make a point of it. Mr. Pilkins has seen him for some days past, and a very clever man I believe him to be. He says it is nothing to speak of, which I can confirm, if that is any consolation, but he recommended to-day, see air. Very wisely, Paul, I feel convinced. See air, repeated Mr. Dombie, looking at his sister. There is nothing to be made uneasy by in that, said Mrs. Chick. My George and Frederick were both ordered see air when they were about his age, and I have been ordered it myself for great many times. I quite agree with you, Paul, perhaps topics may be unconsciously mentioned upstairs before him, which it would be as well for his little mind not to expatiate upon. But I really don't see how that it is to be helped in the case of a child of his quickness. If he were a common child, there would be nothing in it. I must say, I think, with Miss Tox, that a short absence from this house, the air of Brighton, and the bodily and mental training of so judicious a person as Mrs. Pipchin, for instance. Who is Mrs. Pipchin, Louisa? Asked Mr. Dombie the guest at this familiar introduction of a name he had never heard before. Mrs. Pipchin, my dear Paul, returned his sister, is an elderly lady. Miss Tox knows her whole history, who has for some time devoted all the energies of her mind with the greatest success to the study and treatment of infancy, and who has been extremely well connected. Her husband broke his heart in... How did you say her husband broke his heart, my dear? I forget the precise circumstances. In pumping water out of the Peruvian mines, replied Miss Tox. Not being a pumper himself, of course, said Mrs. Chick, glancing at her brother. And it really did seem necessary to offer the explanation, for Miss Tox had spoken of him as if he had died at the handle. But having invested money in the speculation, which failed, I believe that Mrs. Pipchin's management of children is quite astonishing. I have heard it commended in private circles ever since I was... dear me, how high? Mrs. Chick's eye wondered about the bookcase near the bust of Mr. Pitt, which was about ten feet from the ground. Perhaps I should say of Mrs. Pipchin, my dear sir. Observe, Miss Tox, with an ingenuous blush. Having been so pointedly referred to, that the encomium which has been passed upon her by your sweet sister is well merited. Many ladies and gentlemen now grown up to be interesting members of society have been indebted to her care. The humble individual who addresses you was once under her charge. I believe juvenile nobility itself is no stranger to her establishment. Do I understand that this respectable matron keeps an establishment, Miss Tox? Inquired Mr. Donby condescendingly. Why, I really don't know, rejoined that lady, whether I am justified in calling it so. It is not a preparatory school by any means. Should I express my meaning, said Miss Tox, with peculiar sweetness, if I designated an infantine boarding-house of a very select description? On an exceedingly limited and particular scale, suggested Mrs. Chick, with a glance at her brother. Oh, exclusion itself, said Miss Tox. There was something in this. Mrs. Pipchin's husband, having broken his heart of the Peruvian minds, was good. It had a rich sound. Besides, Mr. Donby was in a state almost a mountain to consternation at the idea of Paul remaining where he was one hour after his removal had been recommended by the medical practitioner. It was a stoppage and a delay upon the road the child must traverse, slowly at the best before the goal was reached. Their recommendation of Mrs. Pipchin had great weight with him, for he knew that they were jealous of any interference with their charge, and he never for a moment took it into account that they might be solicitous to divide a responsibility of which he had, as shown just now, his own established views. Broke his heart of the Peruvian minds, used Mr. Donby. Well, a very respectable way of doing it. Supposing we should decide on tomorrow's enquiries to send Paul down to Brighton to this lady, who would go with him? Inquired Mr. Donby after some reflection. I don't think you could send the child anywhere at present without Florence, my dear Paul. He turned his sister, hesitating. It's quite an infatuation with him. He's very young, you know, and has his fancies. Mr. Donby turned his head away, and going slowly to the bookcase, and unlocking it, brought back a book to read. Anybody else, Louisa? He said, without looking up, and turning over the leaves. Wickham, of course. Wickham would be quite sufficient, I should say, returned his sister. Paul being in such hands as Mrs. Pipchins, you could hardly send anybody who would be a further check upon her. You would go down yourself for once a week, at least, of course. Of course, said Mr. Donby, and sat looking at one page for an hour afterwards, without reading one word. This celebrated Mrs. Pipchins was a marvellous, ill-favoured, ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure with a mottled face, like bad marble, a hooked nose, and a hard grey eye, that looked as if it might have been hammered at on an anvil without sustaining any injury. Forty years at least had elapsed, since the Peruvian minds had been the death of Mr. Pipchins. But his relict still wore black bombazine, of such a lustrous, deep, dead, somber shade, that gas itself couldn't light her up after dark, and her presence was a quencher to any number of candles. She was generally spoken of as a great manager of children, and the secret of her management was to give them everything that they didn't like, and nothing that they did, which was found to sweeten their dispositions very much. She was such a bitter old lady, that one was tempted to believe there had been some mistake in the application of the Peruvian machinery, and that all her waters of gladness and milk of human kindness had been pumped out dry, instead of the minds. The castle of this ogreous and child-queller was in a steep by-street at Brighton, where the soil was more than usually chalky, flinty, and sterile, and the houses were more than usually brittle and thin, where the small front gardens had the unaccountable property of producing nothing but merry-golds, whatever was sown in them, and where snails were constantly discovered holding onto the street doors, and other public places they were not expected to ornament, with the tenacity of cupping-glasses. In the wintertime the air couldn't be got out of the castle, and in the summertime it couldn't be got in. There was such a continual reverberation of wind in it, that it sounded like a great shell, which the inhabitants were obliged to hold to their ears night and day, whether they liked it or no. It was not naturally a fresh-smelling house, and in the window of the front parlour, which was never opened, Mrs. Pipchin kept a collection of plants in pots, which imparted an earthy flavour of their own to the establishment. However, choice examples of their kind, too, these plants were of a kind peculiarly adapted to the embalment of Mrs. Pipchin. There were half a dozen specimens of the cactus, writhing round bits of lath, like hairy serpents, another specimen shooting out broad claws like a green lobster, several creeping vegetables possessed of sticky and adhesive leaves, and one uncomfortable flower pot hanging to the ceiling, which appeared to have boiled over, and tickling people underneath with its long green ends, reminded them of spiders, in which Mrs. Pipchin's dwelling was uncommonly prolific, though perhaps it challenged competition still more proudly in the season in point of earwigs. Mrs. Pipchin's scale of charge was being high, however, to all who could afford to pay, and Mrs. Pipchin very seldom sweetening the equitable acidity of her nature in favour of anybody, she was held to be an old lady of remarkable firmness, who was quite scientific in her knowledge of the childish character. On this reputation, and on the broken heart of Mr. Pipchin, she had contrived taking one year with another to eke out a tolerable sufficient living since her husband's demise. Within three days after Mrs. Chick's first allusion to her, this excellent old lady had the satisfaction of anticipating a handsome addition to her current receipts from the pocket of Mr. Dombey, and of receiving Florence and her little brother Paul as inmates of the castle. Mrs. Chick and Miss Tox, who had brought them down on the previous night, which they all passed at a hotel, had just driven away from the door on their journey home again, and Mrs. Pipchin, with her back to the fire, stood reviewing the newcomers like an old soldier. Mrs. Pipchin's middle-aged niece, her good-natured and devoted slave, possessing a gaunt and ironbound aspect, and much afflicted with boils on her nose, was divesting Master Bitherstone of the clean colour he had worn on parade. Miss Panky, the only other little border at present, had that moment been walked off to the castle dungeon, an empty apartment at the back devoted to correctional purposes, for having sniffed thrice in the presence of visitors. Well, sir, said Mrs. Pipchin to Paul, how do you think you shall like me? I don't think I shall like you at all, replied Paul. I want to go away. This isn't my house. No, it's mine. retorted Mrs. Pipchin. It's a very nasty one, said Paul.  Has he ever been in it? asked Paul, pointing out Master Bitherstone. Mrs. Pipchin nodded ascent, and Paul had enough to do for the rest of that day, in surveying Master Bitherstone from head to foot, and watching all the workings of his countenance with the interest attaching to a boy of mysterious and terrible experiences. At one o'clock there was a dinner, chiefly of the ferocious and vegetable kind, when Miss Panky, a mild little blue-eyed morsel of a child, who was shampooed every morning and seemed in danger of being rubbed away altogether, was led in from captivity by the ogre herself, and instructed that nobody who sniffed before visitors ever went to heaven. When this great tooth had been thoroughly impressed upon her, she was regaled with rice, and subsequently repeated the form of grace established in the castle, in which there was a special clause thanking Mrs. Pipchin for a good dinner. Mrs. Pipchin's niece, Barinthia, took cold pork. Mrs. Pipchin, whose constitution required warm nourishment, made a special ripast of mutton chops, which were brought in hot and hot, between two plates, and smelt very nice. As it rained after dinner, and they couldn't go out walking on the beach, and Mrs. Pipchin's constitution required rest after chops, they went away with Berry, otherwise Barinthia, to the dungeon, an empty room, looking out upon a chalk wall and a water-butt, and made ghastly by a ragged fireplace without any stove in it. Enlivened by company, however, this was the best place, after all, for Berry played with them there, and seemed to enjoy a game at romps as much as they did. Until Mrs. Pipchin, knocking angrily at the wall, like the cock-lain ghost revived, they left off, and Berry told them stories in a whisper until twilight. For tea there was plenty of milk and water, and bread and butter, for the little black teapot for Mrs. Pipchin and Berry, and buttered toast unlimited for Mrs. Pipchin, which was brought in hot and hot, like the chops. Though Mrs. Pipchin got very greasy outside over this dish, it didn't seem to lubricate her internally at all, for she was as fierce as ever, and the hard grey eye knew no softening. After tea, Berry brought out a little work-box with the royal pavilion on the lid, and felt her working busily, while Mrs. Pipchin, having put on her spectacles and opened a great volume bound in green bays, began to nod. And whenever Mrs. Pipchin caught herself falling forward into the fire, and woke up, she filliped Master Blithestone on the nose for nodding too. At last it was the children's bedtime, and after prayers they went to bed. As little Miss Panky was afraid of sleeping alone in the dark, Mrs. Pipchin always made a point of driving her upstairs herself, like a sheep, and it was cheerful to hear Miss Panky moaning long afterwards in the least eligible chamber, and Mrs. Pipchin, now and then, going in to shake her. At about half past nine o'clock, the odour of a warm sweetbread—Mrs. Pipchin's constitution wouldn't go to sleep without sweetbread—diversified the revealing fragrance of the house, which Mrs. Wickham said was a smell of building, and slumber fell upon the castle shortly after. The breakfast next morning was like the tea overnight, except that Mrs. Pipchin took her roll instead of toast, and seemed a little more irate when it was over. Master Blithestone read aloud to the rest a pedigree from Genesis, judiciously selected by Mrs. Pipchin—getting over the names with the ease and clearness of a person tumbling up the treadmill. That done Miss Panky was born away to be shampooed, and Master Blithestone to have something else done to him with salt water, in which he always returned very blue and ejected. Paul and Florence went out in the meantime on the beach with Wickham, who was constantly in tears, and about noon Mrs. Pipchin presided over some early readings. It being a part of Mrs. Pipchin's system, not to encourage a child's mind to develop and expand itself like a young flower, but to open it by force, like an oyster, the moral of these lessons was usually of a violent and stunning character—the hero, a naughty boy, seldom in the mildest catastrophe being finished off by anything less than a lion or a bear. Such was life at Mrs. Pipchin's. On Saturday Mr. Donby came down, and Florence and Paul would go to his hotel and have tea. They passed the whole of Sunday with him, and generally rode out before dinner, and on these occasions Mr. Donby seemed to grow like Falstaff's assailants, and instead of being one man in Buckram, to become a dozen. Sunday evening was the most melancholy evening in the week, for Mrs. Pipchin always made a point of being particularly cross on Sunday nights. Miss Panky was generally brought back from an aunt's at Rotten Deen, in deep distress, and Master Bitherstone, whose relatives were all in India, and who was required to sit between the services in an erect position with his head against the parlor wall, neither moving hand nor foot, suffered so acutely in his young spirits that he once asked Florence on a Sunday night if she could give him any idea of the way back to Bengal. But it was generally said that Mrs. Pipchin was a woman of system with children, and no doubt she was. Certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, after so journeying for a few months beneath her hospitable roof. It was generally said, too, that it was highly creditable of Mrs. Pipchin to have devoted herself to this way of life, and to have made such a sacrifice of her feelings, and such a resolute stand against her troubles, when Mr. Pipchin broke his heart in the Peruvian mines.  He never seemed to know what weariness was, when he was looking fixedly at Mrs. Pipchin. He was not fond of her, he was not afraid of her, but in those old, old moods of his, she seemed to have a grotesque attraction for him. There he would sit, looking at her, and warming his hands, and looking at her, until he sometimes quite confounded Mrs. Pipchin, ogreous as she was. Once she asked him when they were alone what he was thinking about. You, said Paul, without the least reserve. And what are you thinking about me? asked Mrs. Pipchin. I'm thinking how old you must be, said Paul. You mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman. He turned the dame. That'll never do. Why not? asked Paul. Because it's not polite, said Mrs. Pipchin snappishly. Not polite, said Paul. No. It's not polite, said Paul innocently, to eat all the mutton chops and toast, Wickham says. Wickham, retorted Mrs. Pipchin colouring, as a wicked, impudent, bold-faced hussy. What's that? inquired Paul. Never you mind, sir, retorted Mrs. Pipchin.  If the bull was mad, said Paul, how did he know that the boy had asked questions? Nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull. I don't believe that story. You don't believe it, sir? Repeated Mrs. Pipchin amazed. No, said Paul.  As Paul had not considered the subject in that light, and had founded his conclusions on the alleged lunacy of the bull, he allowed himself to be put down for the present. But he sat turning it over in his mind, with such an obvious intention of fixing Mrs. Pipchin presently, that even that hardy old lady deemed it prudent to retreat until he should have forgotten the subject. From that time Mrs. Pipchin appeared to have something of the same odd kind of attraction towards Paul, as Paul had towards her. She would make him move his chair to her side of the fire, instead of sitting opposite, and there he would remain in a nuke between Mrs. Pipchin and the fender, with all the light of his little face absorbed into the black bombazine drapery, studying every line and wrinkle of her countenance, and peering at the hard grey eye, until Mrs. Pipchin was sometimes feigned to shut it, on pretence of dozing. Mrs. Pipchin had an old black cat, who generally lay coiled upon the centre foot of the fender, purring egotistically, and winking at the fire, until the contracted pupils of his eyes were like two notes of admiration. The good old lady might have been, not to record it disrespectfully, of which, and Paul and the cat are too familiar, as they all sat by the fire together. It would have been quite in keeping with the appearance of the party, if they had all sprung up the chimney in a high wind one night, and never been heard of any more. This, however, never came to pass. The cat, and Paul, and Mrs. Pipchin, were constantly to be found in their usual places after dark, and Paul, eschewing the companionship of Master Bitherstone, went on studying Mrs. Pipchin, and the cat, and the fire, night after night, as if they were a book of necromancy in three volumes. Mrs. Wickham put her own construction on Paul's eccentricities, and being confirmed in her low spirits by a perplexed view of chimneys from the room where she was accustomed to sit, and by the noise of the wind, and by the general dullness, gashliness, was Mrs. Wickham's strong expression of her present life, deduced the most dismal reflections from the foregoing premises. It was a part of Mrs. Pipchin's policy to prevent her own young hussy, that was Mrs. Pipchin's generic name for female servant, from communicating with Mrs. Wickham, to which end she devoted much of her time to concealing herself behind doors, and springing out on that devoted maiden whenever she made an approach towards Mrs. Wickham's apartment. But Berry was free to hold what converse she could in that quarter, consistently with the discharge of the multifarious duties at which she toiled incessantly from morning to night, and to Berry, Mrs. Wickham, unburdened her mind. What a pretty fellow he is when he's asleep! said Berry, stopping to look at Paul in bed one night, and she took up Mrs. Wickham's supper. Ah, sighed Mrs. Wickham, he need be.  No, Mom, oh no, no more was my uncle's Betsy Jane, said Mrs. Wickham. Berry looked as if she would like to trace the connection of ideas between Paul Dombey and Mrs. Wickham's uncle's Betsy Jane. My uncle's wife, Mrs. Wickham went on to say, died just like his mama. My uncle's child took on just as Master Paul do. Took on? You don't think he grieves for his mama, sure, argued Berry, sitting down on the side of the bed. He can't remember anything about her, you know, Mrs. Wickham. He's not possible. No, Mom, said Mrs. Wickham. No more did my uncle's child, but my uncle's child said very strange things sometimes, and looked very strange, and went on very strange, and was very strange altogether. My uncle's child made people's blood run cold sometimes, she did. Ow! asked Berry. I wouldn't have sat up all night alone with Betsy Jane, said Mrs. Wickham. Not a few'd have put Wickham into business next morning for himself. I couldn't have done it, Miss Berry. Miss Berry naturally asked, why not? But Mrs. Wickham, agreeably to the usage of some ladies in her condition, pursued her own branch of the subject without any compunction. Betsy Jane, said Mrs. Wickham, was as sweet a child as I could wish to see. I couldn't wish to see a sweeter. Everything that a child could have in the way of illnesses. Betsy Jane had come through. The cramps was as common to her, said Mrs. Wickham, as bile's as to yourself, Miss Berry. Miss Berry involuntarily wrinkled her nose. But Betsy Jane, said Mrs. Wickham, lowering her voice and looking round the room and towards poor in bed, had been minded in her cradle by her departed mother. I couldn't say ow, nor I couldn't say when. Nor I couldn't say whether the dear child knew it or not. But Betsy Jane had been watched by her mother, Miss Berry.  Nonsense! cried Miss Berry, somewhat resentful of the idea. You may say nonsense. I ain't offended, Miss. I hope you may be able to think in your own conscience that it is nonsense. You find your spirits all the better for it in this. You'll excuse my being so free in this burying ground of a place which is wearing of me down. Master Paul's a little restless in his sleep. Pat his back, if you please.  Betsy Jane, returned Mrs. Wickham her most solemn tones, was put upon as that child has been put upon, and changed as that child has changed. I have seen her sit often and often, think, think, thinking like him. I've seen her look often and often, old, old, old, like him. I've heard her many a time talk just like him. I consider that child and Betsy Jane on the same footing entirely, Miss Berry. Is your uncle's child alive? asked Berry. Yes, Miss. She is alive. Returned Mrs. Wickham with an air of triumph, for it was evident Miss Berry expected the reverse. And he's married to a silver chaser. Oh, yes, Miss. She is alive, said Mrs. Wickham, laying strong stress on her nominative case. It being clear that somebody was dead, Mrs. Pipchins niece inquired who it was. I wouldn't wish to make you uneasy, returned Mrs. Wickham pursuing her supper. Don't ask me. Don't ask me. This was the surest way of being asked again. Miss Berry repeated her question, therefore. And after some resistance and reluctance, Mrs. Wickham laid down her knife, and again glancing round the room, and at Paul in bed, replied, She took fancies to people, whimsical fancy some of them. Others, affections that one might expect to see, only stronger than common. They all died. This was so very unexpected and awful to Mrs. Pipchins niece, that she sat upright on the hard edge of the bedstead, breathing short and surveying her informant for the looks of undisguised alarm. Mrs. Wickham shook her left forefinger stealthily towards the bed where Florence lay, then turned it upside down, and made several emphatic points at the floor, immediately below which was the parlour in which Mrs. Pipchins habitually consumed the toast. Remember my words, Miss Berry, said Mrs. Wickham, and be thankful that Master Paul is not too fond of you. I am, but he's not too fond of me, I assure you. Though there isn't much to live for, you'll excuse my being so free in this jail of a house. Miss Berry's emotion might have led to her patting Paul too hard on the back, or might have reduced the cessation of that soothing monotony, but he turned in his bed just now, and, presently awaking, sat up in it with his hair hot and wet from the effects of some childish dream, and asked for Florence. She was out of her own bed at the first sound of his voice, and bending over his pillow immediately sang him to sleep again. Mrs. Wickham, shaking her head, and letting Paul several tears, pointed out the little group to Berry, and turned her eyes up to the ceiling. He's asleep now, my dear, said Mrs. Wickham after Paul's. You better go to bed again. Don't you feel cold? No, nurse, said Florence, laughing. Not at all. Ah, sighed Mrs. Wickham, and she shook her head again, expressing to the watchful Berry, We shall be cold enough, some of us, by and by. Berry took the frugal sapotret, with which Mrs. Wickham had by this time done, and bathed her good night. Good night, miss, returned Wickham softly. Good night, your aunt is an old lady, miss Berry, and it's what you must have looked for, often. This consolatory farewell, Mrs. Wickham accompanied with a look of heartfelt anguish, and being left alone with the two children again, and becoming conscious that the wind was blowing mournfully, she indulged in melancholy, that cheapest and most accessible of luxuries, until she was overpowered by slumber. Although the niece of Mrs. Pipchin did not expect to find that exemplary dragon prostrate on the hearthrug when she went downstairs, she was relieved to find her unusually fractious and severe, and with every present appearance of intending to live a long time to be a comfort to all who knew her. Nor had she any symptoms of declining in the course of the ensuing week, when the constitutional viens still continued to disappear in regular succession, notwithstanding that Paul studied her as attentively as ever, and occupied his usual seat between the black skirts and defender with unwavering constancy. But as Paul himself was no stronger at the expiration of that time than he had been on his first arrival, though he looked much healthier in the face, a little carriage was got for him in which he could lie at his ease, with an alphabet and other elementary works of reference, and be wheeled down to the seaside. Consistent in his odd tastes the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad who was proposed as the drawer of this carriage, and selected instead his grandfather, a wheezing old crab-faced man in a suit of battered oil-skin, who had got tough and stringy from long pickling in salt water, and who smelt like a weedy sea-beach when the tide is out. With this notable attendant to pull him along, and Florence always walking by his side, and the despondent Wickham bringing up the rear, he went down to the margin of the ocean every day, and there he would sit or lie in his carriage for hours together, never so distressed as by the company of children. Florence alone accepted always. Go away, if you please. He would say to any child who came to bear him company, Thank you, but I don't want you. Some small voice near his ear would ask him how he was, perhaps. I'm very well, I thank you. He would answer. But you'd better go and play, if you please. Then he would turn his head and watch the child away, and say to Florence, We don't want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy. He had even a dislike, at such times, to the company of Wickham, and was well pleased when she strolled away, as she generally did, to pick up shells and acquaintances. His favourite spot was quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers, and with Florence sitting by his side at work, or reading to him, or talking to him, and the wind blowing on his face, and the water coming up among the wheels of his bed. He wanted nothing more. Floy! he said one day. Where's India? Where'd that boy's friends live? Oh! it's a long, long distance off! said Florence, raising her eyes from her work. Weeks off? asked Paul. Yes, dear. Many weeks' journey, night and day. If you were in India, Floy? said Paul, after being silent for a minute. I should—what is it that Mama did? I forget. Loved me? answered Florence. No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy? What is it—died? If you were in India, I should die, Floy. She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her head down on his pillow, caressing him. And so would she, she said, if he were there. He would be better soon. Oh! I'm a great deal better now! he answered. I don't mean that. I mean that I should die of being so sorry and so lonely, Floy. Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep, and slept quietly for a long time. Awaking suddenly, he listened, started up, and sat, listening. Florence asked him what he thought he heard. I want to know what it says. he answered, looking steadily in her face. The sea, Floy. What is it that it keeps on saying? She told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves. Yes, yes, he said. But I know that they're always saying something. Always the same thing. What place is over there? He rose up, looking eagerly at the horizon. She told him that there was another country opposite. But he said he didn't mean that. He meant further away, farther away. Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off to try to understand what it was that the waves were always saying, and would rise up in his couch to look towards that invisible region far away. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Dombie and Son This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Mill Nicholson Dombie and Son by Charles Dickens Chapter 9 in which the wooden midshipman gets into trouble That spice of romance and love of the marvellous, of which there was a pretty strong infusion in the nature of young Walter Gay, and which the guardianship of his uncle, old Solomon Gills, had not very much weakened by the waters of stern practical experience, was the occasion of his attaching and uncommon and delightful interest to the adventures of Florence, with good Mrs. Brown. He pampered and cherished it in his memory, especially that part of it with which he had been associated, until it became the spoiled child of his fancy and took its own way and did what it liked with it. The recollections of those incidents, and his own share in them, may have been made the more captivating, perhaps, by the weekly dreamings of old Sol and Captain Cuttle on Sundays. Hardly a Sunday passed without mysterious references being made by one or other of those worthy chums to Richard Whittington, and the latter gentleman had even gone so far as to purchase a ballad of considerable antiquity that had long fluttered among many others, chiefly expressive of maritime sentiments, on a dead wall in the commercial road, which poetical performance set forth the courtship and nuptials of a promising young coal whipper with a certain lovely peg, the accomplished daughter of the master and part owner of an castle collier. In this stirring legend, Captain Cuttle described a profound metaphysical bearing on the case of Walter and Florence, and it excited him so much that on very festive occasions, as birthdays and on a few other non-dominical holidays, he would roar through the whole song in the little back parlor, making an amazing shake on the word peg, with which every verse concluded in complement to the heroine of the piece. But a frank, free-spirited, open-hearted boy is not much given to analysing the nature of his own feelings, however strong they hold upon him, and Walter would have found it difficult to decide this point. He had a great affection for the wharf, where he had encountered Florence, and for the streets, albeit not enchanting in themselves, by which they had come home. The shoes that had so often tumbled off by the way, he preserved in his own room, and, sitting in the little back parlor of an evening, he had drawn a whole gallery of fancy portraits of Good Mrs. Brown. It may be that he became a little smarter in his dress after that memorable occasion, and he certainly liked, in his leisure time, to walk towards that quarter of the town where Mr. Dombie's house was situated, on the vague chance of passing little Florence in the street. But the sentiment of all this was as boyish and innocent as could be. Florence was very pretty, and it is pleasant to admire a pretty face. Florence was defenseless and weak, and it was a proud thought that he had been able to render her any protection and assistance.   Thus it came about that perhaps some half a dozen times in the course of the year, Walter pulled off his hat to Florence in the street, and Florence would stop to shake hands. Mrs. Wickham, who with the characteristic alteration of his name invariably spoke of him as Young Graves, was so well used to this, knowing the story of their acquaintance, that she took no heed of it at all. Miss Nipper, on the other hand, rather looked out for these occasions, a sensitive young heart being secretly propitiated by Walter's good looks, and inclining to the belief that its sentiments were responded to. In this way Walter, so far from forgetting or losing sight of his acquaintance with Florence, only remembered it better and better. As to its adventurous beginning, and all those little circumstances which gave it a distinctive character and relish, he took them into account, more as a pleasant story, very agreeable to his imagination, and not to be dismissed from it, then as a part of any matter of fact with which he was concerned. They set off Florence very much to his fancy, but not himself. Sometimes he thought, and then he walked very fast, what a grand thing it would have been for him to have been going to see on the day after that first meeting, and to have gone, and to have done wonders there, and to have stopped away a long time, and to have come back an admiral of all the colours of the Dolphin, or at least a post-captain, with epaulets of insupportable brightness, and have married Florence, then a beautiful young woman, in spite of Mr. Domby's teeth, cravat, and watch-chain, and borne her away to the blue shores of some way or other triumphantly. But these flights of fancy seldom burnished the brass plate of Domby and Son's offices into a tablet of golden hope, or shed a brilliant luster on their dirty skylights. And when the captain and Uncle Sol talked about Richard Whittington at Master's Daughters, Walter felt that he understood his true position at Domby and Son's much better than they did. So it was that he went on doing what he had to do from day to day, in a cheerful, painstaking, merry spirit, and saw through the sanguine complexion of Uncle Sol and Captain Cattle, and yet entertained a thousand indistinct and visionary fancies of his own, to which theirs were worker-day probabilities. Such was his condition at the Pippchin period, when he looked a little older than of your, but not much, and was the same light-footed, light-hearted, light-headed lad, as when he charged into the parlour at the head of Uncle Sol and the imaginary borders, and lighted him to bring up the Madeira. Uncle Sol, said Walter, I don't think you're well. You haven't eaten any breakfast. I shall bring a doctor to you if you go on like this. He can't give me what I want, my boy, said Uncle Sol. At least he is in good practice, if he can, and then he wouldn't. What is it, Uncle? Customers? I returned Solomon with a sigh. Customers would do. Confounded, Uncle, said Walter, putting down his breakfast cup with a clatter and striking his hand on the table. When I see the people going up and down the streets in shoals all day, and passing and repassing the shop every minute by scores, I feel half tempted to rush out, call a somebody, bring him in, and make him buy fifty pounds worth of instruments for ready money. What are you looking in that door for? continued Walter, apostophising an old gentleman with a powdered head, inaudibly to him, of course, who was staring at a ship's telescope with all his might and main. That's no use. I could do that. Come in and buy it. The old gentleman, however, having satiated his curiosity, walked calmly away. There he goes, said Walter. That's the way with them all. But Uncle, I say, Uncle Sol, for the old man was meditating and had not responded to his first appeal. Don't be cast down. Don't be out of spirits, Uncle. When orders do come, they'll come in such a crowd, you won't be able to execute them. I shall be passed executing them. Whenever they come, my boy, return Solomon Gill's. They've never come to this shop again, till I am out of it.  Don't. Old Sol endeavored to assume a cheery look and smiled across the little table at him as pleasantly as he could. There's nothing more than usual the matter, is there, Uncle? said Walter, leaning his elbows on the tea-tree and bending over to speak them all confidentially and kindly. Be open with me, Uncle, if there is, and tell me all about it. No, no, no. Oh, returned Old Sol. More than usual? No, no. What should there be the matter more than usual? Walter answered with an incredulous shake of his head. That's what I want to know, he said. And you ask me? I'll tell you what, Uncle. When I see you like this, I'm quite sorry that I live with you. Old Sol opened his eyes involuntarily. Yes. Though nobody ever was happier than I am, and always have been with you, I'm quite sorry that I live with you when I see you with anything in your mind.   Here am I, as loving a nephew as ever was, I'm sure I ought to be, but I'm only a nephew, and I can't be such a companion to you when you're low and out of sorts as she would have made herself, years ago, though I'm sure I'd give any money if I could cheer you up. And so I say, when I see you with anything on your mind, that I feel quite sorry you haven't got somebody better about you than a blundering young, rough and tough boy like me who has got the will to console you, Uncle, but hasn't got the way, hasn't got the way. Repeated Walter, reaching over further yet to shake his uncle by the hand. Wally, my dear boy, said Salmon, if the cosy little old lady had taken her place in this parlour five and forty years ago, I never could have been fonder of her than I am of you. I know that, Uncle Sal, returned Walter. Lord bless you, I know that, but you wouldn't have had the whole weight of any uncomfortable secrets if she had been with you, because she would have known how to relieve you of them, and I don't. Yes, yes, you do, returned the instrument-maker. Well then, what's the matter, Uncle Sal, said Walter coaxingly. Come, what's the matter? Salmon Gilles persisted that there was nothing the matter, and maintained it so resolutely that his nephew had no resource but to make a very indifferent imitation of believing him. All I can say is, Uncle Sal, that if there is, but there isn't, said Salmon. Very well, said Walter, then I've no more to say, and that's lucky for my time's up for going to business. I shall look in by and by when I'm out to see how you get on, Uncle, and mind, Uncle, I'll never believe you again and never tell you anything more about Mr. Cark of the Junior if I find out that you've been deceiving me. Salmon Gilles laughingly defied him to find out anything of the kind, and Walter, revolving in his thoughts all sorts of impracticable ways of making fortunes and placing the wooden midshipman in a position of independence, but took himself to the offices of Dombie and Sun with a heavier countenance than he usually carried there. There lived in those days round the corner, in Bishop's Gate Street, without, one Brogley, sworn broker and appraiser, who kept a shop where every description of second-hand furniture was exhibited in the most uncomfortable aspect, and under circumstances and in combinations the most completely foreign to its purpose. Dozens of chairs hooked onto washing stands, which with difficulty poised themselves on the shoulders of sideboards, which in their turns stood upon the wrong side of dining tables, gymnastic with their legs upward on the tops of other dining tables, were among its most reasonable arrangements. A banquet array of dish covers, wine glasses, and decanters was generally to be seen, spread forth upon the brism of a four-post bedstead, for the entertainment of such genial company as half a dozen pokers and a hall lamp. A set of window curtains with no windows belonging to them would be seen gracefully draping a barricade of chests of drawers, loaded with little jars from chemist shops, while a homeless hearthrug severed from its natural companion the fireside, braved the shrewd east wind in its adversity, and trembled in melancholy accord with the shrill complainings of a cabinet piano, wasting away a string of day, and faintly resounding to the noises of the street in its jangling and distracted brain. Of motionless clocks that never stirred a finger, and seemed as incapable of being successfully wound up as the pecuniary affairs of their former owners. There was always great choice in Mr. Brogley's shop, and various looking glasses, accidentally placed at compound interest of reflection and refraction, presented to the eye an eternal perspective of bankruptcy and ruin. Mr. Brogley himself was a moist-eyed, pink-complexioned, crisp-haired man of a bulky figure and an easy temper. For that class of kaius Marius, who sits upon the ruins of other people's carthagers, can keep up his spirits well enough. He had looked in at Solomon's shop sometimes, to ask a question about articles in Solomon's way of business, and Walter knew him sufficiently to give him good day when they met in the street. But as that was the extent of the broker's acquaintance with Solomon Gill's also, Walter was not a little surprised when he came back in the course of the forenoon, agreeably to his promise, to find Mr. Brogley sitting in the back parlour with his hands in his pockets, and his hat hanging up behind the door. Well, Uncle Sull, said Walter, the old man was sitting ruefully on the opposite side of the table, with his spectacles over his eyes for a wonder instead of on his forehead. How are you now? Solomon shook his head, and waved one hand towards the broker as introducing him. Is there anything the matter? asked Walter, with a catching in his breath. No, no, there's nothing the matter, said Mr. Brogley. Don't let it put you out of the way. Walter looked from the broker to his uncle in mute amazement. The fact is, said Mr. Brogley, there's a little payment on a bond debt, three hundred and seventy odd, overdue, and I am in possession. In possession? cried Walter, looking round at the shop. Ah, said Mr. Brogley, in confidential assent, and nodding his head as if he would urge the advisability of their all being comfortable together. It's an execution. That's what it is. Don't let it put you out of the way. I come myself because of keeping it quiet and sociable. You know me, it's quite private. Uncle Sol? faulted Walter. Wally, my boy, pretend his uncle. It's the first time such a calamity never happened to me before. I'm an old man to begin.  Uncle Sol, pray, oh, don't! exclaimed Walter, who really felt a thrill of terror and seeing the old man weep. For God's sake, don't do that. Mr. Brogley, what shall I do? I should recommend you looking up a friend or so, said Mr. Brogley, and talking it over. To be sure, cried Walter, catching it anything, certainly. Thanky. Captain Cuttles, the man, uncle, waits till I run to Captain Cuttles. Keep your eye upon my uncle, will you, Mr. Brogley, and make him as comfortable as you can while I'm gone. Don't despair, Uncle Sol. Try and keep a good heart. There's a dear fellow. Saying this with great fervour and disregarding the old man's broken remonstrances, Walter dashed out of the shop again as hard as he could go, and, having hurried round to the office to excuse himself on the plea of his uncle's sudden illness, set off full speed for Captain Cuttles' residence. Everything seemed altered as he ran along the streets. There were the usual entanglement and noise of carts, drays, omnibuses, wagons, and foot passengers, but the misfortune that had fallen on the wooden midshipmen made it strange and new. Houses and shops were different from what they used to be, and bore Mr. Brogley's warrant on their fronts in large characters. The broker seemed to have got hold of the very churches, for their spires rose into the sky with an unwonted air, even that sky itself was changed, and had an execution in it plainly. Captain Cuttles lived on the brink of a little canal near the India Docks, where there was a swivel bridge, which opened now and then to let some wandering monster of a ship come roaming up the street like a stranded leviathan. The gradual change from land to water, on the approach to Captain Cuttles' lodgings, was curious. It began with the erection of flagstaffs, as appurtenances to public houses, then came slopsellers' shops, with guernsey shirts, sourster hats, and canvas pantaloons, at once the tightest and the loosest of their order, hanging up outside. These were succeeded by anchor and chain cable forges, where sledgehammers were dinging upon iron all day long. Then came rows of houses with little veins surmounted masts, uprearing themselves from among the scarlet beans, then ditches, then pollard willows, then more ditches, then unaccountable patches of dirty water, hardly to be described, for the ships that covered them. Then the air was perfumed with chips, and all other trades were swallowed up in mast, ore, and block-making, and boat-building. Then the ground grew marshy and unsettled. Then there was nothing to be smelt but rum and sugar. Then Captain Cattle's lodgings, at once a first floor and a top story in Brigg Place, were close before you. The captain was one of those timber-looking men, suits of oak, as well as hearts, whom it is almost impossible for the liveliest imagination to separate from any part of their dress, however insignificant.  Walter, my lad, said Captain Cattle, Stand by and knock again. Hard, it's washing day. Walter, in his impatience, gave a prodigious thump with the knocker. Hard it is, said Captain Cattle, and immediately drew in his head as if he expected a squall. Nor was he mistaken, for a widow-lady with her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, and her arms frothy with soap-subs, and smoking with hot water, replied to the summons with startling rapidity. Before she looked at Walter, she looked at the knocker, and then, measuring him with her eyes from head to foot, said she wondered he had left any of it. Captain Cattle's at home, I know, said Walter, with a conciliatory smile. Is he? replied the widow-lady. Indeed. He has just been speaking to me, said Walter, in breathless explanation. Has he? replied the widow-lady. Then perhaps you'll give him Mrs. Maxdinger's respects, and say, at the next time he lows himself in his lodgings by talking out of the window, she'll thank him to come down and open the door too. Mrs. Maxdinger spoke loud, and listened for any observations that might be offered from the first floor. I'll mention it, said Walter, if you'll have the goodness to let me in, Mom. For he was repelled by a wooden fortification extending across the doorway, and put there to prevent the little Maxdingers, in their moments of recreation, from tumbling down the steps. A boy that can knock my door down, said Mrs. Maxdinger contemptuously, can get over that, arse it out. But Walter, taking this as a permission to enter, and getting over it, Mrs. Maxdinger immediately demanded whether an English woman's house was her castle or not, and whether she was to be broke in upon by raff. On these subjects her thirst for information was still very important, when Walter, having made his way up the little staircase through an artificial fog, occasioned by the washing, which covered the banisters with a clammy perspiration, entered Captain Cattle's room, and found that gentleman in ambush behind the door. Never owed her a penny-waller, said Captain Cattle in a low voice, and with visible marks of trepidation on his countenance. Donner a world of good turns, and the children too, fixin' at times, though. I should go away, Captain Cattle, said Walter. Dursant do at waller, returned the Captain, she'd find me out wherever I went. Sit down, hose-gills. The Captain was dining in his hat of cold loin of mutton, porter, and some smoking hot potatoes, which he had cooked himself, and took out of a little saucepan before the fire as he wanted them. He unscrewed his hook at dinnertime, and screwed a knife into its wooden socket instead, with which he had already begun to peel one of these potatoes for Walter. His rooms are very small, and strongly impregnated with tobacco smoke, but snug enough. Everything being stowed away as if they were an earthquake regularly every half hour. Hose-gills, inquired the Captain. Walter, who had by this time recovered his breath, and lost his spirits, or such temporary spirits as his rapid journey had given him, looked at his questioner for a moment, said, Oh! Captain Cattle! and burst into tears. No words can describe the Captain's consternation at this site. Mrs. Max Stinger faded into nothing before it. He dropped the potato and the fork, and would have dropped the knife too, if he could, and sat gazing at the boy, as if he expected to hear next moment that a gulf had opened in the city, which had swallowed up his old friend, coffee-colored suit, buttons, chronometer, spectacles, and all. But when Walter told him what was really the matter, Captain Cattle, after a moment's reflection, started up into full activity. He emptied out of a little tin canister on the top shelf of the cupboard, his whole stalk of ready money, amounting to thirteen pounds and half a crown, which he transferred to one of the pockets of his square blue coat. Further enriched that repository with the contents of his plate chest, consisting of two withered atomis of teaspoons, and an obsolete pair of knock-kneed sugar-tongs. Pulled up his immense double-cased silver watch from the depths in which it reposed to assure himself that that valuable was sound and whole, reattached the hook to his right wrist, and seizing the stick covered over with knobs Bade Walter come along. Remembering, however, in the midst of his virtuous excitement, that Mrs. McStinger might be lying in wait below, Captain Cattle hesitated at last, not without glancing at the window, as if he had some thoughts of escaping by that unusual means of egress, rather than encounter his terrible enemy. He decided, however, in favour of stratagem. Waller, said the captain of the timid wink, go for, my lad, sing out. Good-bye, Captain Cattle. When you're in the passage and shut the door, then wait at the corner of the street till you see me. These directions were not issued without a previous knowledge of the enemy's tactics, for when Walter got downstairs, Mrs. McStinger glided out of the little back kitchen, like an avenging spirit. But not gliding out upon the captain, as she had expected, she merely made a further allusion to the knocker and glided in again. Some five minutes elapsed before Captain Cattle could summon courage to attempt his escape, for Walter waited so long at the street corner, looking back at the house, before there were any symptoms of the hard-laced hat. At length the captain burst out of the door with the suddenness of an explosion, and coming towards him at a great pace, and never once looking over his shoulder, pretended as soon as they were well out of the street to whistle a tune. Uncle much-hoved-down, Waller, inquired the captain as they were walking along. I'm afraid so. If you had seen him this morning, you would never have forgotten it. Walk faster, Waller, my lad, returned the captain, mending his pace, and walked the same all the days of your life. Overhaul the catechism for that advice, and keep it. The captain was too busy with his own thoughts of Solomon Gill's, mingled perhaps with some reflections on his late escape from Mrs. McStinger, to offer any further quotations on the way for Walter's moral improvement. They interchanged no other word until they arrived at Old Sol's door, where the unfortunate wooden midshipman, with his instrument at his eye, seemed to be surveying the whole horizon in search of some friend to help him out of his difficulty. Gill's! said the captain, hurrying into the back parlor, and taking him by the hand quite tenderly. Lay your head well to the wind, and we'll fight through it. All you got to do, said the captain, but the solemnity of a man who was delivering himself of one of the most precious practical tenets ever discovered by human wisdom. Is to lay your head well to the wind, and we'll fight through it. Old Sol returned the pressure of his hand, and thanked him. Captain Cattle, then, with the gravity suitable to the nature of the occasion, put down upon the table the two teaspoons and the sugar tongs, the silver watch and the ready money, and asked Mr. Brogley the broker what the damage was. Come, what you make of it! said Captain Cattle. Why, Lord, help you! returned the broker. You don't suppose that properties of any use, do you? Why not? inquired the captain. Why, the amount three hundred and seventy odd, replied the broker. Never mind, returned the captain, though he was evidently dismayed by the figures. All's fish accompanies to your net, I suppose. Certainly, said Mr. Brogley, what sprat's ate whales, you know. The philosophy of this observation seemed to strike the captain. He ruminated for a minute, eyeing the broker, meanwhile, as a deep genius, and then called the instrument-maker aside. Gills, said Captain Cattle, what's the bearings of this business? Who's the creditor? Hush, returned the old man. Come away, don't speak before Wally. It's a matter of security for Wally's father, an old bond. I've paid a good deal of it, Ned. But the times are so bad with me that I can't do more just now. I've foreseen it, but I couldn't help it. Not a word before Wally, for all the world. You've got some money, haven't you? whispered the captain. Yes, yes, oh yes, I've, I've got some, returned old Sol, first putting his hands into his empty pockets and then squeezing his Welsh wig between them, as if he thought he might bring some gold out of it. But I, the little I have got isn't convertible, Ned. It can't be got at. I've been trying to do something with it for Wally, and I'm old-fashioned and behind the time it's here and there and in short it's as good as nowhere, said the old man, looking and bewilderment about him. He had so much the air of a half-witted person, who had been hiding his money in a variety of places and had forgotten where, that the captain followed his eyes, not without a faint hope, that he might remember some few hundred pounds concealed up the chimney or down in the cellar. But Solomon Gills knew better than that. I'm behind the time altogether, my dear Ned, said Sol, in resigned despair. A long way. It's no use my lagging on so far behind it. The stock had better be sold. It's worth more than this debt, and I'd better go and die somewhere on the balance. I haven't any energy left. I don't understand things. This had better be the end of it. Let him sell the stock and take him down, said the old man, pointing feebly to the wooden midshipman, and let us both be broken up together. And what do you mean to do with war? said the captain. There, there. Sit ye down, Gills. Sit ye down, and let me think of this. If I weren't a man on a small annuity, that was large enough till to-day, I hadn't need to think of it.  And you're all right. Old Sol thanked him from his heart, and went and laid it against the back pile of fireplace instead. Captain Cattle walked up and down the shop for some time, cogitating profoundly, and bringing his bushy black eyebrows to bear so heavily on his nose, like clouds setting on a mountain, that Walter was afraid to offer any interruption to the current of his reflections. Mr. Brogley, who was averse to being any constrained upon the party, and who had an ingenious cast of mind, went softly whistling among the stock, rattling weather-glasses, shaking compasses, as if they were physics, catching up keys with load-stones, looking through telescopes, endeavouring to make himself acquainted with the use of the globes, setting parallel rumors astride onto his nose, and amusing himself with other philosophical transactions. Walter, said the captain at last, I've got it. Have you, Captain Cattle? cried Walter with great animation. Come this way, my lad, said the captain, the stock's the security. I'm another. Your governor is the man to advance money. Mr. Dumby? faulted Walter. The captain nodded gravely. Look at him, he said. Look at Gil's. If they were to sell off these things now, he'd die of it. You know he would. We mustn't leave a stone unturned, and there's a stone for you. A stone? Mr. Dumby? faulted Walter. You run round to the office, first of all, and see if he's there, said Captain Cattle, clapping on the back. Quick! Walter felt he must not dispute the command. A glance at his uncle would have determined him if he had felt otherwise, and disappeared to execute it. He soon returned, out of breath, to say that Mr. Dumby was not there. It was Saturday, and he had gone to Brighton. I tell you what, Waller, said the captain, who seemed to have prepared himself for this contingency in his absence. We'll go to Brighton.  I'll back you, Waller. We'll go to Brighton by the afternoon's coach. If the application must be made to Mr. Dumby at all, which was awful to think of, Walter felt that he would rather prefer it alone and unassisted than backed by the personal influence of Captain Cattle, to which he hardly thought Mr. Dumby would attach much weight. But as the captain appeared to be of quite another opinion, and was bent upon it, and as his friendship was too zealous and serious to be trifled with by one so much younger than himself, he forbore to hint the least objection. Cattle, therefore, taking a hurried leave of Solomon Gill's, and returning the ready money, the teaspoons, the sugar tongues, and the silver watch to his pocket, with the view, as Walter thought with horror, to making a gorgeous impression on Mr. Dumby, bore him off to the coach-office without a minute's delay, and repeatedly assured him on the road that he would stick by him to the last.


Okay, so this talk is about the Research Data Switchboard. This is a collaborative project that came out of one of the working groups in Research Data Alliance. In the next 20 to 30 minutes, I give an overview about what it is, how it happened, why it happened, how does it work, and how you can actually take benefit from it. So the actual project, it came out of a working group in Research Data Alliance, the working group called Data Description Registry Interoperability. This group was created by a number of partners initially for enabling the cross-platform discovery between different services, and the actual goal of the project was creating a platform so we can actually connect data between the systems that these providers were hosting in their own infrastructures. So the project was, at the moment, at the final stage of the working group. And before I get to the project, I will talk about Research Data Alliance and how these things are actually coming together. So Research Data Alliance is a collaboration of different international partners who are all involved in the Research Data Infrastructure. It is funded through the coalition of Commonwealth Government, European Commission, and from the U.S. National Science Foundation. It started in 2013, and then there was rapid growth of different groups inside the Research Data Alliance. The structure of Research Data Alliance is basically there are interest groups and there are working groups. So interest groups are a group of people who are actually interested in a topic and then talk about the topic, but the actual work and the projects are happening through the working groups. The working groups have a timeline. So we have started with a specific proposal, and we've worked between 12 to 18 months to complete those timelines. The group, when it started, we had only Anne's, Joya, and Cern as part of the group, but later on we got a number of other partners in this group. You can see the names of those groups and those partners in the slide. The group initially started with the idea that we can actually do much better than just keyboard searching across our platforms. So one of the ways of thinking about this, we were looking at the Amazon systems and we realized, when you look at a book, it tells you what are the other books by the same author, or what are the other publications in the same category which are tightly connected to this and has been purchased by the same viewers before. So we thought, okay, we can implement a similar infrastructure, we can actually connect the data sets across our platform based on the joint collaboration, based on the authorship, based on the same grant or connected publications. Beyond just vocabulary search inside the content of the data set, we were planning to connect information based on the other information that in this color reports connect the data to publication and grants and other systems. In other systems, you will get a similar connection. So we will have a bridge between two data sets based on, for example, a joint grant, or if a professor will collaborate with someone else in another country and then they also work on the same data set or connected data set, you can see all of those connections visible. So what I'm going to do in the next year's slide, I'll show you actually what is a problem in practice because everything that I explained, you can actually do it today using the manual process of actually reviewing the literature. This is a data set in Research Data Australia and this data set has been curated and published from University of Sydney. Now, this has a link. You can click on this, you can go to the page and you can review the data set. Now, a question that I have is that we have two authors on this work, Professor Katherine Bloch and Dr. Emily Wong. Now, actually, can I find anything else on the web from these researchers? Can I find, have these authors published any other data set in this domain? So if I search these authors on the web, so this is actually kind of a problem statement. Can I find other data sets by the same author? If I search them on the web, I will find a page from Professor Katherine Bloch. This is from the University of Sydney and when you basically looking at this page in detail, you can see that there are different information about the author including the grants and including the publications. So in this page, if I scroll down, you can see the list of journal publications, conference papers and grants and book chapters. Now, there are 105 more publications in this list and we can technically search every single one of them on the web and then do the literature review to find out exactly what are those and if there is any data set connected to them. And if you do that, you will find one of them is a data set in plus one, sorry, a paper in plus one, which is a paper actually in the body of the paper, there is a link to a data set in dryout. So I went through all the trail of links from the original data set in ANS to the author, to the paper, to the data set. And this is another data set which we actually discovered in the body of that paper by the same author. So the process that I explained is basically fulfilled the requirements of the initial activities. That means we actually find another data set by the same author. And this is actually much more accurate way to find related data sets rather than actually doing the keyboard searching Google on the same topic. And I remember when I was doing the PhD, I was doing similar thing around the literature to find other books by the same author. So it actually gave me a cohesive view of the activities and discoveries in that domain. Now the problem is that this is not a really scalable platform. So from that, we got to the concept of, can we actually automate this process? And that's how we got to the metaphor of the switchboard. So in the past, there was in the telecom companies, there was a group of people who were actually connecting the lines. They were actually connecting one person to another person manually from the address book. Now these days, these sort of activities happens completely automatically using the computer and automated systems. And the goal here is that to make the same thing for the research data environment. So to make this happen, we actually built a system. And when we were building this system, one of the goals of this working group was not to actually invent a new metadata schema, do not work on a new standard. The goal was work purely on a new software development project using the existing technology. And the reason for that, we had only 12 months later extended to 18 months, but we had a limited time and we wanted the production level infrastructure. So to make that happen, we actually use existing data mining techniques and existing software development technology using the existing schema. And we also have the platform that it's as much as possible is agnostic to the schema format. So it can basically digest many different formats. Now the actual architecture of this system contains three different layers. We have the harvest server, we have the graph creation layer, which does the bulk of the job. It has different integration to external systems. It uses Google API, uses the different search technology to actually make all the connections happen. And then we actually push this information into the API consumer layer when you can actually ingest this information into your system using our API or there is a browser interface that you can actually explore and look at the connections in this environment. Now to explain exactly how this actually works, I am going to actually show you the graph behind this. This is almost looking at under the bonnet, but it is a good exercise to see the concept. So on the research data switch board, there is a graph database which called Neo4j, which basically is aggregated of all the connections and information into the system. In this environment, we can actually write queries to search for different records and information. In this example, we look at the data set from trial. So if I look at the slides that I had here, this was my DUI and I can actually search for this UI. So in this environment, I can write a query, although another note here that you do not need to do that, it's just for demonstration purpose here. And what will happen here is that you will get a data set, which is basically, this is a dryout data set. Now I can click on this and this click gives me another data set from dryout and a researcher. So this researcher, this is discovered by the computer basically. There is no manual edit or there is no authority format around this infrastructure. This is all done by the harvesting and automated system. So the researcher here, which is discovered and connected to the data set, if you look at the URL here, I can actually transfer this URL to the browser and check the researcher in this case. So this is the same page from the professor capturing the love which I have on my slide. And this is a list of papers. Now in this environment, we can query the system further. I can click on the researcher and I get all the publication by this researcher. I can get the grants or I can get another data set, which is also from dryout. So this information again all collected through our harvesting system. Now when I look at the different grants here, these grants also can be investigated further. So in this case, I need to probably zoom out a bit, so I give myself a bit of space and then I can move this one here and I can grab this and I can query this further. So in this scenario, I have other connected records. They're all coming here from ants. And this is a party record from the professor catching block, which is the manager of this grant or the participant in this grant. If I click on this, I can actually see further records from the same person, which in this case is another data set. Now the same thing as I did with the dryout record. I can actually grab this URL, go to the web and look at the record. So this is where we have started from the first place. So the process here is that the graph database actually collected all of this information into the core of this and then we will later on expose this information into the environment that you can actually right now you're looking at this. This is a browser interface, which is based on the ant software package. So here when you go to the homepage, similar to the ants research data Australia, you have the option to search for different records and when you find it, you can actually get further information about that particular data set and connections to other records. So once this one gives us a response, now one thing here is that we have two versions of this website. This is an American hosted version, which would be a bit slow. What I will do here, I will actually post the Australian version, which is hosted currently in Australia for you if you need to actually access this locally and then play with the environment. So I'm posting this to chat to... I can only post it to Susanna, but I think Susanna can post this to everyone else. Okay, so there's one thing that's actually I can show you here. Now when you, in this browser environment, when you go to a particular data set, this was the one that we looked in the first place, underneath there is a widget that actually visualized the same connections and we have this widget for every single data set, grant, paper and research in this environment. So if I actually look at another data set in this environment or a grant, I can actually double click on this, I can go to that page. If it is a data set, you will get the graph. That is one of the... This is at the core, the job of this system is connecting information to data sets. So we produce and visualize information for the data set in this environment by default, but there is, at this stage, our graph visualization is limited to the connection to the data set as an initiating point. Now the widget that you can see here, it is open source and you can actually not only host this, not only install this widget on your own website, but also through the API system that we have, you can actually pull this information, pull the graph and put it in your page. So you can basically have a graph of your, graph of your data set connectivity on your homepage. So the source code for this one is available on GitHub under the MIT open source license. This is another slide about how these things are connected and what do we mean by the degree of separation. This is an example of three degree of separation for the connection between different data sets. So we have a data set which is linked to a researcher. The researcher is also of a paper and that paper is actually connected to another data set. We can have a data set which is linked to a paper. The paper is actually have acknowledgement to a grant and the grant is linked to another data set. These are the sort of connectivity that we actually get a lot of them from our international partners. For example, this kind of connection between the paper and grants, we started to work with our international partners and there are a lot of information that come from the Europe and US about these kind of connectivity that all get aggregated into the body of the switch board. Now, in the last example, we have a data set which is linked to a researcher and the researcher is the participant in the grant and the grant also is linked to a data set. So this is an example of three degrees of separation. In the current switch board browser, actually we visualize everything up to four degrees of separation and that is the limit of the system exploration at this phase but you might extend this later on based on the further demand. The point is the more degree of separation we go through these connections, the more the inference engine needs to work harder and actually getting the data out of the system also will be more complicated because you get more information coming connected to every single node. So if you want to actually access this information, you can actually using our browser interface that it is at the moment, it is in the beta release. We are planning for the final software release in probably late September but the date is not confirmed yet and about the API, the API is actually available right now for the beta test. So if you want to actually participate in this project as a beta test site, you can actually send me an email and then I can give you the key and you will have access to our API at this stage and the code also is available on the GitHub. Now if you want to actually include your data into the system. So the previous slide was about getting data out of the system but now if you want to actually put your data into the system, currently the switch board platform harvesting records from the ANS repository from Dryout, from CERN, from Feature, from Oracle and a number of other partners. But by default, we have the capability of reading information in the FCS format. So if your data into the, if you have it already in the research data Australia, then you are reading that information. If you have the external repository that you want to add that one particularly to this data site, you can do that. There is a harvest platform that can actually read this information independent from research data Australia and if you want to actually see improved discovery on your data set connections, these are the things that we suggest to include in your, in the FCS object. So as a result of this, the inference engine provides a better result or more number of connections. So this connectivity is one of them on a data set on researchers. So when you have the researcher connected to the data set, then we will have more information to actually go and crawl the web and find. When you have the researchers connected to grants, so the level of accuracy will improve. Same thing about the connectivity researchers and publications. And when you have data sets connected to grants and publications or publications, both of these sort of connectivity is also improved accuracy of the result. The system by default as it is, it is gearing toward a high accuracy. That means if you have a case that we identify as not 100% accurate or not close 100% accurate connectivity, the system drops it. So that's why increasing this information actually helps to find more connections because there might be connection already in the system that the inference engine look at it and says, I don't have enough evidence, there's not some name ambiguity here. And for that reason, I cannot actually establish the connection. The most important point of all of this is that using the precision identifiers, like the UI for the data set and publications, the peril for grants and or for researchers or ISNI, in some cases we can actually identify as the records. And if there is a connection between the ISNI records and international publications, that also would help. And the National Library identifier that one is already built into the FCS model. So we also have that connectivity into our environment. Now to get more information about this, well, we have the research data switchboard.org website which provides abstract information about a project. There will be new updates on that website very soon about the release date and about other infrastructure components around the system. I am missing actually I realize I have missed the GitHub repository link in this slide. So I will actually post that one again into the chat box or actually I can do better than that. Later on after this slide I will bring the whole GitHub repository. So you can actually copy that from there. There is a Twitter handle for this and we can send you all about this. Now the RDA Alliance Working Group is a core part of the activities that form this project. You can join the group. I will highly encourage you and close to the next plenary which happens in September in Europe. There will be more presentation and talks about the progress of this project. GitHub repository for this one. This is the core part of the system. You can see the harvest region. We have some other repositories which is connected to our system. All the code here are open source and all of them are licensed under the open source code so you can actually use them. Since at this stage we are actually in the pipeline of development, some of the repositories here they contain the codes that you may not be able to compile them. Part of the reason is that these codes are integrated to other codes so they are not meant to be deployed by themselves. If you have any question about this please contact me directly on the email and I can guide you through how to compile the code and how to use it. Okay, so by this I can actually go back to our final slide and then from this point we can actually open the discussion. If you have questions I can actually answer them. Thank you very much.


This is a course on essential NPM. This is the NPM that you need to know day to day to work in your app and with your team. Whether you've been using NPM for a long time or brand new at it, I think there is something for everyone in this very short but useful course. I cover what I believe is essential for everyone working on a team. I sure had a lot of fun making it and I learned a thing or two as well. So check it out and quickly become the NPM expert on your team.


We were able to go anywhere in the world in 18 hours and I think that just shows coming down here. You know, we were able to kind of perform what we need to perform no matter these events. We didn't know what was coming. We didn't know the schedule. We didn't know how long the events were going to last. We just went out and did our best and executed as best as we could and as a pair of troopers. That's what we're supposed to do and that's absolutely what we did. Well I think we had some excellent competition.  I think, you know, we definitely did what we always do, which is, you know, grind it out and, you know, didn't have any quit in us and really put our best up for 100 percent of the time. Just kind of being in those situations that we're going to test your resolve and we're going to be very stressed and you have to learn to deal with that stress. And I think for me that was probably the most rewarding thing was learning how to deal with stress and try to come out on top and look out for your guys is always keeping that as your priority.


tight that is. Depth swing, belly button, crunch, knees to my chest. You guys are still parallel. We're doing this. This guy's gonna build. I'm in the same spot I was, maybe even worse. Okay? Small details. Fix it, go!