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CHAPTER XVIII.


Trouble with a stylographic pen. We go to a Volunteer Ball, where I am let in for an expensive supper. Grossly insulted by a cabman. An odd invitation to Southend.


April 8.—No events of any importance, except that Gowing strongly recommended a new patent stylographic pen, which cost me nine-and-sixpence, and which was simply nine-and sixpence thrown in the mud. It has caused me constant annoyance and irritability of temper. The ink oozes out of the top, making a mess on my hands, and once at the office when I was knocking the palm of my hand on the desk to jerk the ink down, Mr. Perkupp, who had just entered, called out: "Stop that knocking! I suppose that is you, Mr. Pitt?" That young monkey, Pitt, took a malicious glee in responding quite loudly: "No, sir; I beg pardon, it is Mr. Pooter with his pen; it has been going on all the morning." To make matters worse, I saw Lupin laughing behind his desk. I thought it wiser to say nothing. I took the

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