‘You left Mr Pecksniff!’ cried the tollman, folding his arms, and spreading his legs. ‘I should as soon have thought of his head leaving him.’
‘Aye!’ said Tom, ‘so should I, yesterday. Good night!’
If a heavy drove of oxen hadn’t come by immediately, the tollman would have gone down to the village straight, to inquire into it. As things turned out, he smoked another pipe, and took his wife into his confidence. But their united sagacity could make nothing of it, and they went to bed—metaphorically—in the dark. But several times that night, when a waggon or other vehicle came through, and the driver asked the tollkeeper ‘What news?’ he looked at the man by the light of his lantern, to assure himself that he had an interest in the subject, and then said, wrapping his watch-coat round his legs:
‘You’ve heerd of Mr Pecksniff down yonder?’
‘Ah! sure-ly!’
‘And of his young man Mr Pinch, p’raps?’
‘Ah!’
‘They’ve parted.’
After every one of these disclosures, the tollman plunged into his house again, and was seen no more, while the other side went on in great amazement.
But this was long after Tom was abed, and Tom was now with his face towards Salisbury, doing his best to get there. The evening was beautiful at first, but it became cloudy and dull at sunset, and the rain fell heavily soon afterwards. For ten long miles he plodded on, wet through, until at last the lights appeared, and he came into the welcome precincts of the city.