But I must not linger with the company assembled in the bookseller's back-parlor; for their conversation will not help my reader on with my story.
A very little man, with very short, bandy legs, was trudging along a wide and rather crowded thoroughfare, with a pair of workman's boots in his hand. It was Mr. Spelt's sub, Mr. Dolman, the cobbler.
"Well, Dolly, how do?" said a man in a long velveteen coat, with a short pipe in his mouth and a greasy cloth cap on his head. "You're late to-night, ain't you, Dolly?"
"Them lawyers; them lawyers, Jim!" returned Dolman, enigmatically.
"What the blazes have you got to do with lawyers?" exclaimed Jim Salter, staring at the cobbler, who for the sake of balance had now got one boot in each hand, and stood weighing the one against the other.
"Not much for my own part," returned Dolman, who was feeling very important from having assisted at his neighbors' flitting. "But there's good people in our court could tell you another story."
I have said that Mrs. Boxall did anything but hold her tongue about her affairs, and Dolman had heard Mr. Worboise's behavior so thoroughly canvassed between Mr. Kitely and Mr. Spelt, that he was familiar with the main points of the case.
"Come and have a drop of beer," said Jim, "and tell us all about it."
No greater temptation could have been held out to Dolman. But he had a certain sense of duty that must first be satisfied.
"No, Jim. I never touch a drop till I've taken my work home."