He was a powerfully made man of about sixty-five, with a solemn, hard-set face. The upper lip was clean-shaven and the chin decorated with a square, grizzled beard—a mode of wearing the hair that gave prominence to the ugly lines of the mouth. He wore a Sunday-best suit and a silk hat. He carried a blue band-box on his knees, and his enormous hands were spread over the cover. Boutigo, who held the reins beside him, seemed, in comparison with this mighty passenger, but a trivial accessory of his own vehicle.
"Where did you say William Dendle lives?" asked the big man, as the van swung round a sharp corner and came to a halt under the signboard of "The Lugger."
"Straight on for maybe quarter of a mile—turn down a court to the right, facin' the toll-house. You'll see his sign, 'W. Dendle, Block and Pump Manufacturer.' There's a flight o' steps leadin' 'ee slap into his workshop."
The passenger set his band-box down on the cobbles between his ankles and counted out the fare.
"I'll be goin' back to-night. Is there any reduction on a return journey?"
"No, sir; 'tisn' the rule, an' us can't begin to cheapen the fee wi' a man o' your inches."
The stranger apparently disliked levity. He stared at Boutigo, picked up his band-box, and strode down the street without more words.
By the red and yellow board opposite the tollhouse he paused for a moment or two in the sunshine, as if to rehearse the speech with which he meant to open his business. A woman passed him with a child in her arms, and turned her head to stare. The stranger looked up and caught her eye.
"That's Dendle's shop down the steps," she said, somewhat confused at being caught.
"Thank you: I know."