'That man,' said he, after a long pause, 'ought to employ some one to use his cane for him.'
With this, for no apparent reason, his eye brightened suddenly. But the source of his inspiration he kept to himself. His manner was jocular as ever as he ordered his steak.
On his way home he knocked at the door of the town sergeant, Thomas Trebilcock, a septuagenarian, more commonly known as Pretty Tommy. The town sergeant was out in the country, picking mushrooms; but his youngest granddaughter, who opened the door, promised to send him along to the mayor's office as soon as ever he returned.
At ten o'clock, or a little later, Pretty Tommy presented himself, and found Mr Pinsent at his desk engaged in complacent study of a sheet of manuscript, to which he had just attached his signature.
'I think this will do,' said Mr Pinsent, with a twinkle, and he recited the composition aloud.
Pretty Tommy, having adjusted his horn spectacles, took the paper and read it through laboriously.
'You want me to cry it through the town?'
'Certainly. You can fetch your bell, and go along with it at once.'
'Your Worship knows best, o' course.' Pretty Tommy appeared to hesitate.
'Why, what's wrong with it?'