“‘So do I, Mr Fullerton,’ he said; ‘but I don’t think my poor boy has got it here.’”
“Did he say that?” said Warton.
“Ay, that he did, and pst—here he is!”
There was a murmur in the inn room where the principal Lawford tradesmen were assembled, as old Michael Ross, the tanner, came in, looking very keen and dark, and as if close application to his trade had heightened the colour of his skin.
The old man seemed nervous, and as if he feared that he would not be counted welcome; but he soon found that if he would only discuss his son’s conduct no one would be looked upon as a more welcome addition to the weekly meeting.
There was a pause for a few minutes, during which old Ross gave his orders to the landlord, and lit his pipe, smoking afterwards in quiet consciousness that he was being furtively glanced at by all assembled, and that it was only with the expectation of hearing more that they were so quiet of tongue.
“Been having a run up to London, Master Ross, I hear,” said Warton, the saddler, at last.
“Yes, Master Warton, yes; I’ve had a run up amongst the soot and smoke,” said Michael Ross.
“And was strange and glad to get back again, I’ll be bound,” said Tomlinson, while Fullerton lay back in his armed Windsor chair, staring straight up at the ceiling, with the calm self-satisfaction of a man who knew all that was being asked.
“Well, yes, neighbour,” said Michael Ross, thoughtfully, “I must own that I was glad to get back again. London’s a wearisome place, and the din and rattle of the streets is enough to muddle any man’s brains. It was quite a relief to turn down the narrow lane to my son’s chambers, and get out of the buzz and whirr. My bark mill’s nowt to it.”