Septimus Hardon shook his head, and read again, “Phillips, EJ, Terrace, Newington.”
“Stop a bit, sir,” said Matt, rising and catching the ring hung from the ceiling, and pulling the bell.—“Here, fill that pint again, my man; and, I say, got another of these d’rectories anywheres?”
“Yes,” said the pot-boy, “there’s another somewheres—an old un.”
“That’s the ticket, my lad, bring it in.”
The boy performed the, to him, satisfactory feat of pitching the pot in the air, and catching it with one hand as he went out, though the performance was somewhat marred by the vessel turning in its flight, and announcing its descent by a small frothy brown shower, which sprinkled the performer’s countenance. However, he was soon back with the refilled measure, and a very dirty, very dusty, and dog’s-eared old copy of the Directory, with one cover torn off, and a general aspect of its having been used for generations as the original London Spelling-book.
Septimus seized the bulky tome, and soon had the right page found; and in this volume there was no mention of EJ Phillips of Newington.
“Young beginner,” said Matt hollowly; for he had the pewter-vessel to his lips. “Anyone else same name?”
“Two more!” cried Septimus in a husky voice: “Phillips, Thomas, Camden-town; Phillips, Nicholas, Chiswell-street.”
“Hooray!” cried Matt, thumping down the pewter-pot, so that a portion of the contents splashed over into the cheese-dish. “That’s the man we want, sir; so finish your crust and cheese, and then off we go.” And shrewd old Matt forgot to ask himself in his excitement how it was that the name was not in the Directory often years later date, but acted up to what he was advising, and, then late in the afternoon, they again started on their search.
It was not a very long walk from Walbrook to Chiswell-street; but old Matt made very little progress, halting at times as if in pain, while in answer to inquiries he only smiled and declared that it was his “chronics.” Now he panted and seemed out of breath, then he paused at one of his favourite halting-places, but too short of breath to make a speech, even had he felt so disposed. At the last stoppage, induced by Septimus Hardon’s eager strides, the old man panted out: