“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.