"Oh, if I were only possessed of my riches, I never would sew on a pair of old breeches! Thimbles and thread! Buttons and braid! Oh, who would be bound to this rascally trade?
"If money I had, I'd be free from all care, And what _master_ must _make_, _I_ should have but to _wear!_ Needles and pins! Shears and cloth ends! When the work's ended then pleasure begins!"
"What's that you're singing about riches?" cried his master, sharply; "Riches, forsooth! you will die in the poor house, I can tell you, if you don't stitch more diligently! Come, sew away! sew away!" So saying, he gave him a good thwack with his yard stick, to make him continue working.
All the beatings in the world, however, could not thump out of Bartlemy Bowbell a belief that had got into his head that he should one day become rich and famous, through the agency of a wonderful jewel called the Gold Stone. As I said, people, in those days, were by no means so wise as they are at present, and so it fell out that the most learned philosophers of that olden time believed as firmly as did the tailor's apprentice in the existence of this Gold Stone, the peculiar property of which was, that if it came in contact with any common metal, it changed it, on that instant, into gold. Now, this story had come to the ears of Bartlemy Bowbell, and by one of those odd cranks that not overwise people sometimes take in their heads, he was perfectly persuaded that, sooner or later, he was fated to find the miraculous gem.
Matters soon rose to such a pitch, as may easily be seen, that his master finally turned him out of doors, saying "that he ate more than he would ever earn."
"Very well, master," quoth Bartlemy, "I don't regret your goose and cabbage!" and having said this, he ran away as hard as he could, dropping one of his slipshod shoes as he went along, with his master pursuing after, yard stick in hand, whom, however, he soon contrived to outstrip.
As he had not earned a penny during the week, he was entirely without money, and nobody would lodge a shabby apprentice with only one shoe, for nothing. He wandered on until he was clear of London and in the open fields, begging of those he met on the road, but who always replied to his solicitation, "Why don't you go to work, you lazy 'prentice?" for they knew what he was, because he wore a 'prentice's flat cap. Worst of all, night now came on, and Bartlemy was at last compelled to lie down beneath a tree, where he soon fell asleep. The moon rose high, and still Bartlemy snored, when, all of a sudden, he was roused by a smart blow on the shoulder from what he could have sworn was a yard stick.
