MR. WRENCH AND JOE DOUGHTY――A VAGRANT’S LODGING HOUSE.
The glories of Bartholomew Fair, of Greenwich, and a host of others in
the neighbourhood of the metropolis have long since passed away, and
it is not at all likely they will ever be resuscitated. But fairs of
various descriptions are still held in many parts of England, but they
are considerably shorn of their leading attractions.
Mr. Wrench’s motive for hastening to Nantwich was to be present at the
hiring fair at a small hamlet within a few miles of that place.
On Pack-rag Day (the 29th of September), the serfs of agriculture pack
up their clothes and seek fresh masters.
And on this day the farmers, dressed in their Sunday clothes, ride to
the mansions of their landlords, their faces bright with honest pride,
their leather bags filled with gold coins and bank notes.
The scene has been faithfully depicted in Wilkie’s celebrated picture
of the “Rent Day.”
The landlords, seated before their blue bundles of quarter’s bills,
receive their tenants with smiles of welcome and gratitude――that is,
if the latter are furnished with the amount of rent due.
In some parts of England it is still customary among the lords of
manors and proprietors of large lands to give a dinner to their
tenants on the rent days, as shown in Wilkie’s well-known picture.
But these quarterly feeds are now rapidly dying out of date, and will
soon no longer exist, except in the hall of some youthful squire, who
may be gifted with a dramatic passion for revivals.
Like fairs, these convivial gatherings are fast becoming obsolete.
In the year referring more especially to this history, the hiring fair
to which Mr. Wrench was about to pay a visit happened to fall on
quarter-day; so all the farmers of the neighbourhood paid their rents
early, and rode on to the place to engage their carters, shepherds,
and farm maids for the ensuing year.
Mr. Wrench was not a man to be a day behind the fair. He came to a
halt at a small village within an easy walk of it the day before its
fun and frolic was to commence.
He put up at a roadside inn, and secured the best bed in the
establishment for Nell Fulford.
This done, he explored the neighbourhood, having for his companion the
redoubtable Joe.
Near to the junction of three cross roads, there stood, at the time of
which we are writing, a low-looking beershop bearing the sign of the
“Travellers’ Rest.”
This place was a vagrants’ lodging-house, and as Mr. Wrench and his
rustic companion came within sight of the house the detective regarded
it with a considerable amount of interest.
After surveying it for some time he said to Joe Doughty――
“As far as the accommodation is concerned I don’t know that I can
recommend it, but if you don’t mind taking up your quarters in it for
one night it would be as well. Tramps, thieves, and vagabonds of all
sorts are accustomed to pay nightly visits to the ‘Travellers’ Rest,’
as it is termed, and it is possible you may be able to pick up some
information respecting the man of whom we are in search.
“If I thought that, I’d stop there this very night!” cried Joe.
“I wish you would.”
“Don’t ’ee say another word upon the matter, guv’ner――I’ll be one
among ’em.”
“And you can see me in the morning at the ‘Dun Cow.’ I would join you,
but the chances are that some of the tramps in the ‘Travellers’ Rest’
would know me, and that would be fatal to us. You are a stranger――keep
your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut, and who knows but you
may gain the hundred pounds reward?”
“I beant a-goin’ to take a shilling on it, coom what may,” returned
Joe, in an indignant tone.
“Very well, my man, that you can please yourself about.”
“Noo, not a penny.”
Mr. Wrench and Joe returned to the “Dun Cow,” this being the roadside
house in which the former had taken up his quarters.
Our detective was a diplomatist in his own peculiar way.
His object was to remain as unobserved as possible till the day of the
fair, but his rustic friend was appointed to what might be termed
outpost duty.
When night came on Joe was dispatched by the commander-in-chief to the
vagrants’ lodging-house.
The house in question had at one time been a respectable habitation.
The lower part was built of brick, once red and flourishing, but now
dirty and dingy; and about half-way up were boards, once painted
white, which took the place of their more solid neighbours below. They
were what was called weather-boards, and ran along one over the other,
in order that the rain might drop off them to the ground.
The walls below were substantial enough; the yard gate and large
fore-court were amply covered with tall grass or graceless weeds.
The gate that once was closed each night by the smart and active
ostler now stood back on one hinge, resting, therefore, partly on the
ground.
And the stables once filled with prancing or neighing, or, at least,
well-fed steeds, were at this time only warmed by the breath of
beggars, too poor even to pay a groat for a night’s lodging, and who
compounded with their host for a twopenny night’s straw in the
outhouses.
Occasionally, indeed, some benighted and bestormed waggoner, unable to
reach the usual place of his sojourn, would unwillingly or unwittingly
stop at the “Travellers’ Rest,” and allow his horses to share the same
fate as the beggars who surrounded them. But such visits were few and
far between, and even waggon horses would avoid if they could “the
vagrants’ lodging-house.”
The “Travellers’ Rest” was one of those houses which was known by all
classes of mendicants, whether belonging to the _silver_ class, or
what are styled by all well-informed travellers _barkers_, to the
_highflyers_ or begging letterwriters to the _shallow coves_ or
impostors, who in various garbs obtain clothes from the compassionate
and charitable to a great amount, and then sell them to the dealers as
left-off garments――too often spending the produce in ardent
spirits――to the shallow motts or females, who, like shallow coves, go
nearly naked through the world, begging ever for clothes, ever
obtaining them, and yet never clothing themselves, but selling them
for food, for lodging, for drink, and for the enjoyment of every
conceivable vice, as well as to the separate race of beggars and
match-sellers, who live by the ordinary tales, true or false, of real
or supposed misery, and in which class is to be found much more of
suffering than crime, and of destitution and heart-rending woe than we
are either accustomed to believe or like to inquire into.
It has been well said that one-half of the world does not know how the
other half lives, and the history of mendicants of every degree would
furnish the outside public with strange revelations, many of which
would appear almost incredible.
The mendicant poor are in every way a different race of beings to the
working population of this country.
They have signs of their own, a language of their own, plans and
schemes of their own, or rather for their own class, homes of their
own, or rather barns and outbuildings, reserved by compassionate
farmers and landowners for them. They split society into fractions,
calculate with tolerable accuracy all their chances, and could tell in
many cases how much they should receive in a week.
Generally speaking, they are distrustful of each other, living in a
constant state of fear of arrest and imprisonment, concealing their
own names even from their commonest associates, and changing their
announced plans and movements in less than an hour, as they saw with a
prophet’s eye a lion in their path.
But then how different are their classes!
There’s the systematic vagrant, whose life has been one of constant
and unchanging mendicity.
There is the occasional vagrant, who begs after pea-picking season is
over and after hopping has terminated, in order to raise money to go
back to London or to the county to which he belongs.
There is another class of occasional vagrants, who migrate from a
district where poverty and misery assail them, to the place of their
nativity or of their former brighter fortunes, seeking for halfpence
on their way to provide for their daily wants as they press onwards.
The vagrants in large towns and cities, and principally in the
metropolis, are the very worst class.
They are in eight cases out of ten rank impostors.
They go about with statements of losses by fire, shipwrecks, and
accidents.
They obtain counterfeit signatures of clergymen and magistrates to
declarations of having lost their property by fire.
In a preceding chapter we have given a description of how these
precious attestations were manufactured by the “smoucher,” and the
account given of this clever concoction of false documents is
substantially correct.
Those who work with the _slum_ and _delicate_ (the statement and book
of subscriptions) furnished them by the “smoucher,” often raise large
sums of money, which they expend in vice and profligacy.
The shipwrecked mariner’s lurk used to be one of the most frequent and
lucrative.
A person of this character, known by the nickname of Captain
Johnstone, followed the lurk of a shipwrecked captain for many years.
He was an excellent writer, and had a respectable appearance――so the
unwary were deceived, and he was enriched.
It was said that he obtained some thousands of pounds by his
mendacious statements.
When any account of a shipwreck appeared in the newspaper which seemed
likely to suit his purpose he would write out a new statement
(_slum_), and provide a new book (_delicate_), and then set to work
with the utmost zeal to obtain subscribers.
Polish counts, who had been driven from the land of their birth by
Russian tyranny, used at one time to infest London, Liverpool,
Manchester, and Bristol, but this form of begging has gone out of
fashion.
“The victims of accidents,” wholly counterfeit, “the sufferers from
sickness,” quite unreal, “the deaf and dumb lurkers,” who seem to be
deprived of speech and hearing, “the servant out of place,” who
cajoles the domestics at gentlemen’s houses, “the colliers who have
suffered from water suddenly bursting into a coal pit,” and yet who
never saw a coal pit, “the starved-out weavers,” who go about with
printed papers or small hand-bills, representing that they are out of
employ, although they have never seen a loom, “the cotton-spinning
lurk,” with that trick of leaving printed appeals and calling again
for them and alms, though they know as much about diamond mounting as
cotton-spinning, are a few of the dodges of active, cunning, and
shameless mendicants.
There was, some years ago, a celebrated man named “Cheshire Bill,” who
was at one time a cotton-spinning lurker.
He travelled throughout various parts of England for more than fifteen
years as a vagrant. Once he was a “shallow cove,” and represented
himself as a shipwrecked sailor. Then he was a “carpet weaver in
distress,” and sang through the streets to obtain “browns and wedge”
(halfpence and silver). Then he was a cotton weaver from Manchester,
singing through the streets in company with others, having a clean
white apron round him. After this he was on the collier’s lurk, and
carried a written paper, stating that he had suffered from a dreadful
accident at Bilston in a coal pit.
Then he turned watch-seller, afterwards a simple roadside beggar, and
finally a cotton-spinner out of employ, selling cotton said to be of
his own spinning, and out of which he managed to make a profit of a
hundred per cent.
“The calenderer’s lurk” is another trick, and the doggerel poetry, in
which their appeal is made to the “kind and generous public,” contains
amongst a variety of other verses the following record of their own
virtues and charity when, as they pretend, they knew better days:――
Whene’er we saw one in distress
We strove to help him through;
But now we cannot help ourselves――
We have no work to do.
The systematic writers of begging letters are also much more common in
London than in the country, and rejoice in the name of “highflyers.”
Year after year they invent new cases with different hands, and
sometimes their wives or mistresses, where they are known themselves,
present their “appeal,” and thus avoid detection, and collect an
abundant revenue for the sins as well as the necessaries of life.
Well would it be for society at large if the vagrants of Great Britain
were confined to these impostors. The remedy would be easy. Their
extinction by imprisonment and transportation would not be difficult.
But alas! mixed up with these untrue and unreal appeals to the
sympathy of our nature are thousands and tens of thousands of cases
where sickness, accidents, death, want of work, inadequate wages, and
the other ills of life to which sorrowing man is heir, have given to
the squalid, starving, wretched, and abused applicants the right to
ask for food, or to seek in the “unions” they so much abhor the bread
of existence.
Joe Doughty had been accustomed throughout his life to fare but
roughly. He had, however, never made the acquaintance of a low
lodging-house, and did not, therefore, know the habits and manners of
the people who are accustomed to patronise establishments of this
description.
When he arrived in front of the inhospitable looking place known as
the “Travellers’ Rest,” he hesitated. All was as still as death. Joe’s
courage appeared to fail him, and he was half inclined to go back to
Mr. Wrench.
The balance was turned in an opposite direction in a few seconds. “_A
cadger on the fly_” (a beggar on the road) with his female companion
and three children came up, and made straight for the door.
They entered, and Joe Doughty, seeing that they were well acquainted
with the house, followed them.
The landlord of the house looked at his new customers from the door of
his small inner room――or bar parlour, as it was termed out of
courtesy. He was a man with an eagle eye, but withal a good-humoured
cast of features. In a familiar tone and manner, he said to the cadger
who had entered――
“Well Mike, what luck old man? Which is it, ‘_browns or wedge_,’ eh?”
Meaning, in plain terms: Well, Mike, what success have you had? Is it
halfpence or silver?”
“Not much ‘_wedge_’” replied the cadger, in a discontented tone.
“Browns is the order of the day――people are getting jolly stingy. It’s
a selfish world, make the best of it.”
As he made the last observation, the cadger walked towards a large
back room on the ground floor, which was the vagrants’ apartment.
Joe Doughty followed, without either a word of civility or salutation
with his host or his customers.
He sat himself down on a bench originally rough and uncomely, but
which had been polished by the much sitting of the vagrants thereon
year after year.
The sight presented to our honest countryman was neither cheery nor
inviting, but Joe had made up his mind to take things as they came,
and not to murmur under any circumstances.
As long as he was not interfered with he was perfectly content, and
did not find fault with the company in which he found himself.
“Come here,” said the man, whom he had followed into the house,
addressing himself to his companion and children.
“Out with your _scran_ (broken victuals), and let’s have it. I’m as
hungry as a half-starved dog.”
Joe looked round. The room was filled with vagabonds of every possible
description, but they were of a diversified character.
Near the fire, which was composed of dead burning embers and coke, sat
an old man, whose hair was white as the driven snow, and who, to all
appearance, was between seventy and eighty years of age.
His eyes appeared to be bright and piercing――certainly they were
undimmed by age or care, and he fastened them on Joe Doughty for some
considerable space of time. It was evident that he recognised a
stranger in the countryman, whom he was endeavouring to reckon up.
“These be hard times, my friend,” said the old man, addressing himself
to Joe.
“Aye, that they be, master. Work be scarce, and money be scarcer
still.”
“Umph, yes. It’s a bad neighbourhood for _high-flyers_,” remarked the
old man.
Joe, who did not understand the meaning of the term, said, haphazard,
“I suppose it is, sir.”
“Yes, very bad.”
“But times ’ll mend, let us hope,” observed Joe.
The old man shook his head, and lapsed into silence.
The room was about eighteen feet long by fourteen or sixteen wide. In
the daytime it was lighted by two windows which looked out into a sort
of half yard and half garden, where there was a pump of good water,
and a large stone sink.
The floor consisted of dirty boards, which were, however, sanded every
morning.
The room had neither prints, pictures, blinds, or curtains, such
articles being deemed altogether unnecessary.
There were, however, strange to say, no broken panes in the windows;
but two ventilators whirled round in the upper portion of them,
through which the hot air and smoke from the pipes gained egress.
The fireplace was at the farther end of the apartment.
Around the wall, and fixed to it firmly, were a line of benches,
before which were tables, on which the vagrant opened his bag, his
towel, his basket, or his wallet.
The favourite benches were those which were placed at the top of the
room from the fireplace to each side, which were, in fact, cross
benches.
Those who arrived last were obliged to content themselves with the
forms which were not fixed.
The tables were by no means crowded, but they were tolerably full.
Having discovered a vacant place about the right centre bench, which
was fixed to the wall, Joe Doughty made his way to the spot, but as he
pushed his way along he met with a reproof from a female, whose supper
he disarranged in passing by.
Joe apologised, and the female was gracious enough to accept it, and
express herself well satisfied.
This little incident passed unnoticed by the rest of the occupants,
all of whom appeared to be intent upon their own business
arrangements.
Joe, when he had taken his place, had another glance at his
companions, who, to say the truth, would have afforded a painter an
excellent study for his canvas.
By the side of the old man sat one of the prettiest girls Joe had seen
for many a long day. She was travelling, or, in other terms, begging
with her grandfather, who sat next to her.
Whether she was his grandchild no one could tell; she passed as such,
and the two were inseparable. Her age was about eighteen.
There was a light in her eye, a rapidity in her step, a fascination in
her smile, and a playfulness in her jests and tone, which were quite
captivating.
Joe had not come to the “Travellers’ Rest” to lose his heart, but the
young girl engaged his attention in a remarkable degree.
“She be a purty creature,” he murmured to himself, “and be a deal too
good for a place like this ’ere.”
He did not know, when he apostrophised her, that she had been
corrupted by depraved society, and was miserably callous to all moral
sentiment.
The old man, her reputed grandfather, “did the _lame lurk_” during the
day――that is, shammed lameness, and at night had his leg unbandaged,
and could walk nimbly enough across the room.
He was a picturesque old scoundrel, and his grey hairs doubtless
helped him more than his lameness, and enabled him to smoke his pipe,
drink his pint, and supply half the same quantity to the girl who
devoted herself so uncomplainingly to him.
The old man was now and then irritated by the whispering of “an
out-and-out swell vagrant,” who sat next his grand-daughter and
endeavoured to flirt with her.
But the girl did not encourage the amorous swain; she shifted her seat
to the other side of the old man, who fell foul of the “swell,” whom
he soundly rated.
“Shut up! stow it!” exclaimed several, addressing themselves to the
young man. “You aint everybody, and the girl don’t want to have any of
your fine speeches.”
The young man, finding himself in the minority, desisted from further
importunities.
Joe Doughty’s attention was now attracted to another object, this
being the landlord, who had entered the room, and, after having spoken
to several of its occupants, he came in front of Joe and said――
“Out or in, young man?”
Doughty, who did not know what he meant, affected not to hear him.
“Why don’t you answer?” said the landlord. “Out or in?”
All of a sudden it occurred to our obtuse countryman that the question
might relate to his sleeping accommodation.
“Oh, in, if you please, sir,” said Joe.
“All right, young man. Fourpence to pay, if you please. You’d like a
bed to yourself, I s’pose.”
“Oh dear me――yes,” returned Doughty.
“Very well――down with the browns. Sharp’s the word.”
Joe took out his fourpence, and placed them on the table all in
halfpence.
“Oh, that’s it――is it?” said the landlord, as he discovered three
harps on the reverse side of the halfpennies.
“_Harp’s_ the word this time it would seem,” said he.
Joe Doughty did not know what he meant by this last observation.
“I thought _harping_ had gone out of fashion in these parts,” said the
landlord as he walked away, “but it appears I am mistaken. Dick
Baynton was nabbed yesterday, as was a month at Jecks, the grocer’s,
and now’s in the lock-up for the ‘’sizes.’”
Doughty was in a fog――he was under the impression that the words that
had fallen from the lips of his host more particularly concerned him,
as several present regarded him with a fitful glance.
Presently he mustered up courage, and said to the old man who had
previously addressed him――
“What does he mean?”
“Who?”
“The landlord.”
“Oh nothing particular; he takes you for a _palmer_.”
Joe was as wise as ever, but he concluded that a palmer must be a
scounrel of some sort.
“What makes him do that?”
The old man explained matters; he told Doughty that there were a class
of thievish vagrants called _palmers_, who visit shops under the
pretence of collecting _harp_ halfpence, and to induce shopkeepers to
search for them they offer thirteen pence for a shilling’s worth, when
many persons are silly enough to empty a large quantity of coppers on
their counters to search for the halfpence wanted.
The _palmer_ is sure to have his hand amongst the treasure, and while
he affects to search diligently for the _harps_ he contrives to
conceal some halfpence in the palm of his hand, and when he removes
his hand from the copper always holds his fingers out straight, so
that the shopkeeper has no suspicion that he is being robbed.
This explanation was to a certain extent satisfactory, but Doughty did
not feel complimented by being taken for a vagrant of that class; he
however did not trouble himself much about the matter.
The girl who acted as waitress to the establishment now presented
herself, and Joe ordered her to bring him “a pint of beer.”
“Penny, threehalfpenny, or twopenny?” said she.
“The best you have, my gal,” returned Joe, who forthwith pulled out of
his pocket some slices of bread and butter and a piece of German
sausage, which Mr. Wrench had provided him with; for, as the astute
detective observed, “When at Rome do as Rome does――every tramp brings
his _prog_ with him, which he devours before going to bed; and you
must do the same.”
The landlord’s suspicions were now confirmed. He, as well as the
majority of those present, had but little difficulty in reckoning
Doughty up. A fourpenny bed, twopenny beer, and bread, butter, and
German sausage were fare and accommodation worthy of a _palmer_.
The pint of beer was brought. Joe asked the old man to have a pint as
well――which the latter accepted.
The girl who acted as waitress was what might with justice be termed a
character. She was short, crooked, one-eyed, lame on the right leg,
flat as a pancake, long as a herring, yellow-white, with a sharp nose,
and a mouth the shape of an old-fashioned semicircular door scraper.
She wore a low dark cotton gown with a neck handkerchief which might
have been white at the time of the Reformation. Her gown sleeves were
tucked up above the elbows, and her gown was pinned up behind.
She was certainly more useful than ornamental, and her life was a hard
one. As far as work went she was a wonder, her master never supposing
the possibility of her being tired or worn out. She was on the trot
from morn to night, from week’s end to week’s end. Whatever good
qualities she might have been possessed of had long since disappeared
in consequence of the evil association she was constrained to submit
to.
She was sullenly stupid, and at times insolent, but she went round and
round from January to December, like a horse in a mill, and never
complained of the hard life she was leading.
It is true she occupied her present post because nobody else would
employ her as a waitress.
As a rule, hotel-keepers and publicans like smart-looking girls to
serve in that capacity.
The landlord was a big strapping fellow, who had passed some months of
his earlier days in a metropolitan prison for sundry acts of petty
knavery, but the discipline of the gaol did not suit him, and he
therefore made up his mind to “pull himself short up,” as he playfully
explained it.
He married, and took the “Travellers’ Rest,” which he obtained for a
“mere song.”
He was as strong as a giant, and stood over six feet in height, with
strong sinewy limbs.
No one would think of attacking him single-handed, and he was
therefore well adapted by nature to be the chief of a vagrants’
lodging-house, for he was more than a match for the most desperate or
daring mendicant.
His wife was altogether of a different mould. She had once been
handsome, but coarse language, coarse associates, combined with a
predilection for strong drinks, had converted her into a faded and
fallen beauty――a mere shadow of her former self.
When the landlord had seen his customers supplied with the requisite
quantity of beer, he turned to a thickset, wild, savage-looking man
who had a small bull-dog at his feet, and who travelled with another
man much like himself.
The wild, savage-looking man had jet black hair, an old brown leather
belt, and a little sack thrown across his shoulder.
He was a “prig,” and belonged to that class of vagrants who are adepts
in drawing a purse, watch, or pocket-book from persons in crowded
places. Races, fairs, and prize fights were the most favourite places
with him.
His companion was so much like him that Joe came to the conclusion
that he was his brother.
One was talkative, and the other taciturn, and Jim Morgan (for such
was the eldest brother’s name) gave all the orders and superintended
all the arrangements. He was evidently commander-in-chief.
The eldest might have been twenty-five, the youngest some three or
four years younger.
“In or out, gentlemen,” said the landlord, as he eyed the two with
something like doubt and suspicion.
“Why what do you suppose we come here for?” returned Jim Morgan.
“It aint my bis’ness to ’spose anything,” said the landlord. “I only
ask a question, which perhaps you will answer at your leisure.”
At this sally there was a roar of laughter from the company.
“You’re mighty clever in your way, no doubt,” cried Morgan, “and in
course you are duly appreciated. Your question I will answer at once.
We want two separate beds, or the largest-sized double bed which you
have to spare.”
“Right you are,” returned the landlord; “we won’t make any bones about
the matter. No. 9, first floor, two beds in the room, that will suit
you all to pieces. If it don’t you can accommodate yourselves
elsewhere, or out, if you prefer it.”
“You’re jolly independent, but no matter, it’s the nature of the
animal,” said Morgan.
Joe Doughty had been listening to the foregoing conversation, and
hence it was he was oblivious to the fact that a stranger had entered
the room.
The new-comer threaded his way through the assembly until he had
gained the further end of the room.
It was at this time that Doughty’s attention was attracted towards
him. There was something in the movements and gait of the man which
made Joe pause and consider.
He looked hard at the new-comer, and saw that he was a man with a
bushy beard, long elfin locks, and a green shade over his eyes. He did
not appear to be acquainted with any of the vagrants, and Joe thought
this a little singular.
He seated himself on one of the benches and remained moody and silent
for some little time; after which he rose suddenly, and wended his way
back to the entrance of the room.
As he passed along there was a peculiarity in his movement which
caused Joe Doughty to regard him with a searching glance.
“I dunno what to mek on him,” murmured Joe. “’Taint a bit loike the
varmint I am in search of: but he be creeping along in a rum sort of
way――a deal arter the fashion o’ Giles――but it can’t be him――and yet,
I don’t feel quite sartain――I’ll wait and watch. Maybe he’ll coom back
and let un see a bit more on him.”
But Joe was wrong in his surmise. The man with the green shade and
bushy whiskers did not return.
Half-an-hour passed over, and the stranger did not again reappear.
The landlord came into the room once more to attend to his customers.
As he passed, Joe said――
“What has become of the man with the green shade over his eyes?”
“Oh, he’s hooked it,” returned the host. “Didn’t like the looks of you
all――he’s a deal too particular for his money.”
“Has he gone away?”
“Yes he’s stepped it, and arter paying for his shake-down too――he’s a
rum un.”
“Gone, eh!” exclaimed Joe, scratching his head and looking
wonder-struck.
“Ah, surely; what’s the odds? We can do well enough without a varmint
loike him. Let him go, and be hanged to him.”
Joe Doughty was perplexed――the man’s sudden departure troubled him. He
sat silent and thoughtful for some time, and then he took himself to
his bed in one of the upstairs rooms.
But the situation in which he found himself was so new and strange to
him that it was a long time before gentle sleep closed his eyelids.
By early morn he arose, and sallying forth from the vagrants’
lodging-house, he at once hastened to the “Dun Cow,” and there
awaited, in the breakfast room, the appearance of Mr. Wrench.