‘In the name of wonder,’ said I, ‘with that thing there on the wall continually ticking in your ear, how comes it that you do not know what’s o’clock?’
‘Why,’ said the old man, ‘I have contented myself with giving a tolerably good guess; to do more would have been too great trouble.’
‘But you have learnt Chinese,’ said I.
‘Yes,’ said the old man, ‘I have learnt Chinese.’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘I really would counsel you to learn to know what’s o’clock as soon as possible. Consider what a sad thing it would be to go out of the world not knowing what’s o’clock. A millionth part of the trouble required to learn Chinese would, if employed, infallibly teach you to know what’s o’clock.’
‘I had a motive for learning Chinese,’ said the old man, ‘the hope of appeasing the misery in my head. With respect to not knowing what’s o’clock, I cannot see anything particularly sad in the matter. A man may get through the world very creditably without knowing what’s o’clock. Yet, upon the whole, it is no bad thing to know what’s o’clock—you, of course, do? It would be too good a joke if two people were to be together, one knowing Armenian and the other Chinese, and neither knowing what’s o’clock. I’ll now see you off.’
CHAPTER XXXVI
ARRIVAL AT HORNCASTLE—THE INN AND OSTLERS—THE GARRET—FIGURE OF A MAN WITH A CANDLE
Leaving the house of the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell what was o’clock, I wended my way to Horncastle, which I reached in the evening of the same day, without having met any adventure on the way worthy of being marked down in this very remarkable history.
The town was a small one, seemingly ancient, and was crowded with people and horses. I proceeded, without delay, to the inn to which my friend the surgeon had directed me. ‘It is of no use coming here,’ said two or three ostlers, as I entered the yard—‘all full—no room whatever;’ whilst one added, in an undertone, ‘That ’ere ain’t a bad-looking horse.’ ‘I want to see the master of this inn,’ said I, as I dismounted from the horse. ‘See the master,’ said an ostler—the same who had paid the negative kind of compliment to the horse—‘a likely thing, truly. My master is drinking wine with some of the grand gentry, and can’t be disturbed for the sake of the like of you.’ ‘I bring a letter to him,’ said I, pulling out the surgeon’s epistle. ‘I wish you would deliver it to him,’ I added, offering a half-crown. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said the ostler, taking the letter and the half-crown. ‘My master will be right glad to see you. Why you hain’t been here for many a long year. I’ll carry the note to him at once.’ And with these words he hurried into the house. ‘That’s a nice horse, young man,’ said another ostler. ‘What will you take for it?’ to which interrogation I made no answer. ‘If you wish to sell him,’ said the ostler, coming up to me, and winking knowingly, ‘I think I and my partners might offer you a summut under seventy pounds;’ to which kind of half-insinuated offer I made no reply, save by winking in the same kind of knowing manner in which I had observed him wink. ‘Rather leary!’ said a third ostler. ‘Well, young man, perhaps you will drink to-night with me and my partners, when we can talk the matter over.’ Before I had time to answer, the landlord, a well-dressed, good-looking man, made his appearance with the ostler; he bore the letter in his hand. Without glancing at me, he betook himself