3
‘... eight.’ The last stroke of eight o’clock. Mr. Pardoe, rubbing his eyes, saw that his wife’s face still wore the expression of bored patience with which she was accustomed to receive his domestic sermons, and that Timothy, as before, balanced himself on one leg and jerked his body backwards and forwards by way of passing time. They seemed to be waiting for him.
‘What’s this?’ cried Mr. Pardoe, staring at the paper in his hand. He recognized The Bondholder’s Register. An alarming idea visited him. ‘Am I...?’ He looked down at his legs, stroked his arms. Yes, he was. He breathed deeply in his relief. ‘My dear, did you notice anything, anything unusual?’
Blank faces greeted him.
‘Between the seventh and eighth stroke of the hour—did anything happen to me?’
His wife took a step towards him. Her eyes became anxious. ‘No, dear. Are you feeling ill?’
‘No, no. Perfectly well. Just a whim of mine. A mere fancy. Nothing at all. Nothing.’
‘Oh, father!’ said Timothy, for the fourth time, ‘you might tell me a story.’
Mr. Pardoe turned to the boy with enthusiasm. He beamed paternal affection upon him. ‘Yes, old man. Come along. A story before we go to bed, eh?... Once upon a time there was a tailor who lived in the forest and kept a beard, a grey beard, which sang pretty tunes....’
THE MOLE