It was only a strange chance, of course, yet a strange chance it was that should smite those two out of all the yard with barrenness.
As I turned I was aware of a bent old man issuing from a side door of the church with a bunch of keys in his hand. To him I walked and addressed my inquiries.
“Ah!” he said, struggling out of a violent fit of coughing. “George White, sir? The man’s dismissed for drunkenness. To my sorrer, so it is. I has to do his work till they finds a substitoot. It’ll be the death of me this chill autumn.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“He ain’t app’inted yet.”
“George White, I mean?”
“He lives, if living he is, ower at Fullflood yonder. I misremember the number, but it’s either 17 or 27, or mebbe 74. They’ll tell you if you ask. Not but what I’d leave him alone, if I was you, for he’ll do you no good.”
“He can’t do me any harm, at least. I think I’ll try.”
“Go your courses, then. Young men are that bold-blooded. Go your courses. You can’t miss if you follers my directions.”
I had my own opinion as to that, but I tramped off to the district indicated, which lay in the western quarter of the town. Chance put out a friendly hand to me.