“Blest if I think he’s heard a word I’ve said,” muttered the old fellow.
“Strange?” said Septimus, rousing himself; “yes, very.”
“’Tis, sir,” said Matt, who was interested in his subject. “Now, do you know, sir,” he continued after they had walked part of the way along the Row,—“do you know that if I was younger, I should be for founding a society, to be called the ‘Printers’ Spectacle Association,’ supported by contributions from writers for the press, who by this means would supply us with glasses, for often and often they quite destroy our sight.”
Old Matt’s dissertation was put an end to by the driver of one of the Delivery carts, when, returning to the matter which had brought them from home, the strange couple were soon threading their way along Cheapside.
There was but little difficulty in getting access to the registers of the old church, and a not very long search brought the seekers to the entry, in brown ink upon yellow paper, of the baptism of Septimus, son of Octavius and Lavinia Hardon, January 17—; but though the ages of the children before and after were entered, by some omission, his was absent.
A copy was taken by both, and then they stood once more in the open street.
“Just as I told you, sir,” said Matt, “isn’t it? there’s the date; but it don’t say how old you were.”
“No,” replied Septimus; “but still it is satisfactory, so far. Now we’ll see about the marriage, and then visit Finsbury.”
“You know the church?” said Matt.
“Well, not exactly,” said Septimus dreamily.