‘Is it possible?’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘I can discern,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might, and gazing intently through his spectacles—‘I can discern a cross, and a 13, and then a T. This is important,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. ‘This is some very old inscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-houses in this place. It must not be lost.’
He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.
‘Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?’ inquired the benevolent Mr. Pickwick.
‘No, I doan’t, Sir,’ replied the man civilly. ‘It was here long afore I was born, or any on us.’
Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.
‘You—you—are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. ‘You wouldn’t mind selling it, now?’
‘Ah! but who’d buy it?’ inquired the man, with an expression of face which he probably meant to be very cunning.
‘I’ll give you ten shillings for it, at once,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘if you would take it up for me.’
The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr. Pickwick, by dint of great personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it, deposited it on the table.