From the window of his present workshop he could see its grey
battlements, and they reminded him of the days when, as a lad just
beginning to put questions about the surprising world in which he
found himself, he used to listen to such stories as his father could
tell him of the history of Clerkenwell. Mr. Kirkwood occupied part
of a house in St. John's Lane, not thirty yards from the Arch; he
was a printers' roller maker, and did but an indifferent business. A
year after the birth of Sidney, his only child, he became a widower.
An intelligent, warm-hearted man, the one purpose of his latter
years was to realise such moderate competency as should place his
son above the anxieties which degrade. The boy had a noticeable turn
for drawing and colouring; at ten years old, when (as often
happened) his father took him for a Sunday in the country, he
carried a sketch-book and found his delight in using it. Sidney was
to be a draughtsman of some kind; perhaps an artist, if all went
well. Unhappily things went the reverse of well. In his anxiety to
improve his business, Mr. Kirkwood invented a new kind of
'composition' for printers' use; he patented it, risked capital upon
it, made in a short time some serious losses.
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