“Really,” said the clergyman at parting, “I am extremely glad to have met you this morning, and you may depend upon finding us in better order at your next visit.”
“There has been no trickery there you see, Matt,” said Septimus, as they stood once more in the street; “all seems straightforward.”
“Just so, sir; your uncle seems to have some game of his own that I can’t quite see through as yet; but stop a bit. Good sort o’ chap that young parson. I’ll ask him to dinner some day, though he didn’t say, ‘Take a glass of sherry, Matthew Space.’ Then how careful you ought to be! Now I should have been ready to swear that your precious uncle had been at them books. S’pose he ain’t so much older than you, sir?”
“Not many years,” replied Septimus. “He was my poor father’s younger brother. But now for the doctor!” he said in an elated tone.
“Thanky, sir, but suppose we have the porter and bread-and-cheese first. You youngsters are so rash and impatient; and besides, I didn’t taste that fine old dry sherry, you know. One thing at a time’s the best plan, and it seems to me that a little refreshment’s the next thing wanted. ’Tain’t no use to suppose, sir, that because a horse has won one race he’ll go and polish off the next the same hour. D’yer see, sir?”
Septimus expressed himself as being able to see, and he submitted forthwith to his companion’s guidance.
Now most people would imagine that Matt entered the first inviting open portal that presented itself, where the gorgeously-emblazoned boards announced the retailing of So-and-so’s entire; but no. Old Matt seemed very particular and hard to please, passing house after house before he could meet with one to his satisfaction; and in a quarter of an hour’s brisk walk a few public-houses can be passed in London streets. But Matt had something else on his mind besides draught stout; and at last, when Septimus Hardon’s patience was well-nigh exhausted, the old man stopped short before a place where the window displayed a notice to the effect that the Post-office Directory was at the bar.
“There,” said Matt, pointing to the window, “thought me a nuisance now, didn’t you, sir? But that’s what I wanted. So now we’ll have our stout and cheese, and a look at the doctors too.”
Seated in the public-house parlour, fragrant with the fumes of flat beer and stale tobacco, they were soon discussing the foaming stout and more solid refreshments, though Septimus spent the greater part of his time poring over the volume he had laid open upon the gum-ringed table—a volume that Matt considered would be as useful as a medical directory. Surgeons there were in plenty; but only one answering to the name of Phillips, and he was practising at Newington.
“Moved there, perhaps,” said Matt.