On a windy day in April, I visited Turk, and, as usual, found old Mac there. Turk, very busy over some theatrical wigs, looked up from his work, and asked me if I wanted to speak to him. No, I answered; I had merely dropped in as I passed. I had as little excuse for the visit as I had for many others; I only went in the vague hope of hearing something of Jessie. Turk understood this, without being told.
'Business good, Turk?' I inquired.
'First-class,' said Turk. 'I shall have to get an assistant, I expect. By the bye---- O, never mind!'
He suddenly interrupted himself, in a confused manner.
'By the bye, what, Turk?'
'Nothing,' he replied, bending over his work.
Old Mac looked at me somewhat significantly, and, rising, said he should take a stroll in Covent-garden Market.
'It does one good to walk up and down that arcade,' he said. 'One smells the country lanes there. How would it do to have it on the stage, Turk, with real hothouse fruit and flowers fresh from the market gardens every night? I daresay it will come to that, in time. The stage is not what it was, my sons.'
Winking at me, old Mac went out, and I, regarding the wink as an invitation to follow him, wished Turk good-morning.
'This is not the way to Covent Garden,' I said, as I joined him. 'Have you had your morning drain, Mac?'