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Upper Thames Street is not what it used to be in the days when Fairbrothers' was young. One by one the low, grimy warehouses are disappearing, to give place to noble edifices with elaborate office room and electric light. Bit by bit the narrow roadway becomes widened, and the blocking of traffic less frequent.

The language there is not what it used to be. Ancient carmen, who have become locally notorious over victories on the question of choking the narrowest thoroughfare, and who have displayed powers of flowery repartee that no cabman dare challenge, now ride sorrowfully along in silence. Not many of them are left; the newness is killing them off and placing smart young uniformed men in their places.

The public-houses are disappearing, too; at least, the old ones are, for new ones rise rapidly on the same ground, and "business is carried on as usual during alterations." The beer there is not what it used to be; so say the old hands, and they ought to know, for they've taken it regularly enough, and can speak from experience.

Everything in Upper Thames Street is affected by the march of progress; and nothing more noticeably than the City man's caterer.

Forty years ago you had no choice but to pick a midday meal at the nearest tavern or a cook-shop. In the one you met red-faced men who swore, took snuff, and whipped off a pint of ale like winking; in the other melancholy clerks, with family cares and whiskers, consumed boiled beef and carrots in a "dem'd demp," warm atmosphere, and finished up with light snacks of plum-roll, as greasy and melancholy as themselves. The young man with the clean collar was not catered for then as he is to-day. There were young men then, of course—though not many with clean collars—but they couldn't afford boiled beef, and were not so educated to beer. Where they lunched is a mystery. I suspect that the theory of a venerable dock porter, that "they took a bit o' grub in a handkercher, and ate it by the water-side," is very nearly correct. I suppose the office-boys of those days did the same thing.

Now the midday lunch is one great, wonderful and far-spreading meal. It is as various as it is important; the one touch of interest to midday London. No class of the London worker is neglected; none so obscure, strange, or eccentric as to be forgotten. Boiled beef and carrots have fallen into disuse, except among a few obstinate grey-haired clerks, who would sooner give up clerking than change their habits; tavern lunches are popular enough, among bucolic book-keepers; but the great man, the star luncher in the eye of the up-to-date caterer is the young man with the clean collar.

For him and his kin we have the tea-shop, the dining-rooms, the restaurant, the cafÉ, Lyons', the A.B.C., the Mecca, and others. Snacks of fish, vegetarian dinners, quick lunches; smart waitresses to serve him and smile upon him. He sits upon a cushioned seat, looks at himself in a mirror placed obsequiously before him, hangs his hat on a servile, gilded knob, and is requested to acquaint the manager with any uncivil behaviour on the part of the menials of the establishment. When my lord has finished his meal, which may cost anything from twopence upwards, a gorgeous smoking-room yawns for his presence, at no extra cost. Here again the seats are cushioned and the mirrors opposite. Here are draughts, dominoes, and chess, kept specially for him. All for the young man with the clean collar, whose pence are worth fawning for—the best customer of the City caterer.

Upper Thames Street, with its noisy vans and riverside associations, has not been neglected by the caterer. It has its sprinkling of smart tea-rooms and restaurants within easy reach. To various of these the office youths of Fairbrothers' betake themselves daily, and to one in particular go two members whom we will follow.

Henry Cacklin is a junior clerk of three months' service, a connoisseur of cigarettes, smart beyond his sixteen years, and a devil with the girls. His companion, William Budd, is a mere office-boy, sixteen also, but with less business ability; due no doubt to his excessive interest in affairs that don't concern him. Cacklin has a strong partiality for sausage-and-mashed, when he can afford it, which is seldom. When he cannot it is his habit to look over the menu and inquire as to the quality of the present batch of sausages, finally deciding that as the last were so disgustingly bad, he must try a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee.

Billy Budd, who makes no secret of his desire to have plenty for money, favours lemonade and the largest penny buns; a selection that arouses the scorn of Cacklin, who wonders how any "feller" can expect to be chummy with the waitress on "buns"!

"Rotten tack that!" he says, contemptuously, toying delicately with his sandwich. "If you had brain work to do, old chap, you'd soon notice the want of a bit of meat."

"No fear," said Billy. "What about old Busby? I saw him 'aving a bun and milk yesterday."

"Busby," said Cacklin, with a sneer; "a lot he hurts himself. I'd like his job at half the price, and keep my grandmother out of the money."

Depreciation of other people's abilities was a sad failing with Cacklin. He had at various times expressed his willingness to take over the work of many of his superiors and do it with "one hand tied behind him," besides showing them "a thing or two" about office work, if they so desired it.

"Here, what do y' think!" said Billy, suddenly, stuffing his mouth full of bun, "Saw old Polly last night and his girl. Nice little daisy, too, she was. Called him 'Thomas'—'Oh, Thomas!'"

Billy was convulsed for a few minutes at his own vulgar wit; much to the disgust of his companion, whose attitude towards the fair sex was distinctly blasÉ.

"She's no catch," said Cacklin; "I'd like him to see the little bit of goods I met up at Richmond last Sunday. Great Scott! old man, she was rippin'; and quite a kid—only seventeen. She was fair gone, too; I had a regular howling job to get away from her. Promised to meet her on Thursday, just to get away!"

Cacklin laughed at the recollection of his own subterfuge, and tipped a wink to the waitress, who replied with a haughty stare.

"I say," said Billy, turning in his usual way to other people's affairs; "Early's fairly got it, ain't he?"

"What do you mean by 'fairly got it'?" said Cacklin, annoyed at the indifference of the waitress.

"Why, got it with her—the missis. They went off together this morning in a hansom, as chummy as you like. Handed her in, he did, and put it on like winking when he spoke to the cabman; laughin' and talkin' like blazes, they were."

Cacklin winked again, but this time at Billy Budd.

"If you want to know anything, my boy," he said, "you put your money on Early. He knows his book, you take my tip. I've watched the game from the beginning, and I know a thing or two about it. The others may think they're fly, and he may bamboozle them; but he'd have to get up before six to get over me on that lay."

He paused to light a cigarette, and then leant back in his seat.

"Now I'll tell you a bit more," he said, with a knowing squint. "Mr. George Early's playing up to hook her, and he'll do it, too. Put that in your cigarette-holder, my son. She'll be Mrs. George Early soon, if you want to know anything."

"No fear," said Billy.

"Oh?" said Cacklin. "Well, if you like to bet on it I'll lay you a quid that it comes off. I'll lay you a level quid that he marries her. And it's a certainty, too, you'd lose the money."

"She wouldn't marry him," said Billy, stolidly.

"Wouldn't she?" said Cacklin. "You don't know anything about women, my boy. I suppose she hasn't had him up at her 'ouse much the last three weeks, eh? Only about four times a week. They haven't been up in the office together much, have they? They ain't been out and about much, either? I didn't meet 'em at Earl's Court, did I, and Watkins didn't see 'em go to the Trocadero together, did he? You've had your eyes shut. Why, he's been following her about, and she's been running after him when he didn't, ever since the first day he did the bossing up in her office."

"What about saving her life? Matthews said she was chased by a mad horse, and Early saved her just as she was going to be trampled to death."

"Matthews is a silly fool. I know all about his saving her: I've heard the true story. She's cracked on him over that, and thinks him a hero. All women are the same. There was a fine gel cracked on me once through helping her over the road on a wet day. If Early takes my tip, he'll keep the game up for all it's worth."

"What sort of boss d' you think he'd be?" said Billy.

"Thunderin' good!" said Cacklin, briefly.

"He ought to give us all a rise if he marries her," said William Budd, ruminating.

"So he will, you can bet," said the junior clerk. "Early's the right sort of chap to boss the show; he's been putting the other chaps in their places a bit in the last few weeks. About time, too. He's made Polly sit up, and Gray's been nearly off his crumpet. A lot of lazy 'ounds, they are; rousing up the other chaps when they sleep all day themselves."

With this summary verdict on his superiors, Cacklin produced a draught-board and prepared to give a scientific display of his powers, in a friendly game with Billy. This game was a regular feature in Mr. Cacklin's lunch-hour, and usually resulted in his making all the scientific moves while his opponent won the game; whereupon he would enter into a lengthy explanation of his slight error in not huffing at the right time, by which action he would have taken four kings and literally "romped home."

The present game came to an end in the usual way, Cacklin ascribing his defeat to his own generosity in giving his opponent "a chance" at a critical moment.

"Now I'll have a cheque if you don't mind," he said, in sweetly insinuating tones to the waitress. "I must get back and start the men at work, and see my lady secretary about her holidays."

"Get back and sweep out the passage, you mean," said the girl, pertly.

Cacklin ignored this rude remark, and lit a fresh cigarette.

"Who was that young feller I saw you with last night?" he said, winking at Billy.

"Keeper of the monkey-house, of course. Lucky thing he didn't see you."

"Don't be saucy now," said the junior clerk, pleasantly, "or I sha'n't take you up the river on Sunday. Give him my love this evening, and mind you're home by ten."

"Take him off," said the girl to Billy; "the coffee's got in his head."

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