'No, I haven't marketed yet. My poor boy has been ill, and I haven't been able to go out.'
'Well, but there can't be any mistake, my dear;' and the landlady, scenting a mystery, became very inquisitive indeed; here's your name on a bit of paper.'
The writing was plain enough, certainly: 'For Mrs. Carey. Paid for. Basket to be returned.'
'Do you know the boy who brought them?' asked my mother.
'To be sure I do, my dear creature! He belongs to Mrs. Strangeways, the greengrocer round the corner.'
'I should like to speak to him. May he come up?'
'Certainly, my dear soul!'
And the landlady, in her eagerness to get at the heart of the mystery, disregarded the effect of muddy boots on clean stairs, and called the boy up. But he could throw no light upon the matter. All that he knew was that his mistress directed him to bring the things round to Mrs. Carey's, and to make haste back with the basket. 'And please, will you look sharp about it?' he adjured in a tone of injured innocence, digging his knuckles into his eyes, and working them round so forcibly that it almost seemed as though he were trying to gouge out his eyeballs; if you keep me here much longer, missis'll swear when I get back that I've been stopping on the road playing pitch and toss.'
The landlady, whose curiosity had now reached the highest point, protested that it would be flying in the face of Providence to hesitate another moment, and whipped open the basket.
'Half a pound of salt butter,' she said, calling out the things as she placed them on the table; half a pound of tea; sixpennorth of eggs--they're Mrs. Chizlett's eggs, my dear, sixteen a shilling--I know 'em by the bag; a pound of brown sugar; a cabbage; taters--seven pound for tuppence, my dear; and a lovely shoulder of mutton--none of your scrag! There!'