KIPPS
The financial aspect of things grew large before him. His whole capital in the world was the sum of five pounds in the Post Office Savings Bank and four and sixpence cash. Besides this there would be two months' "screw." His little tin box upstairs was no longer big enough for his belongings; he would have to buy another, let alone that it was not calculated to make a good impression in a new "crib." Then there would be paper and stamps needed in some abundance for answering advertisements, and railway fares when he went "crib hunting." He would have to write letters, and he had never written letters. There was spelling, for example, to consider. Probably if nothing turned up before his month was up he would have to go home to his Uncle and Aunt.
How would they take it?. . .
For the present at any rate he resolved not to write to them.
Such disagreeable things as this it was that lurked below the fair surface of Kipps' assertion, "I've been wanting a change. If 'e 'adn't swapped me, I should very likely 'ave swapped 'im."
In the perplexed privacies of his own mind he could not understand how everything had happened. He had been the Victim of Fate, or at least of one as inexorable—Chitterlow. He tried to recall the successive steps that had culminated so disastrously. They were difficult to recall. . . .
Buggins that night abounded in counsel and reminiscence.
"Curious thing," said Buggins, "but every time I've had the swap I've never believed I should get
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