Mrs Berens was rather cross, and she snubbed Joe Chegg in a way that brought tears to the young man’s eyes, which he concealed by stooping over the paste pail, and slopping about the contents so vigorously that Mrs Berens, in dread for her garments, hastily beat a retreat.
“It’s of no good,” said Joe Chegg, “a man can’t hang paper properly when he’s in love; and when he’s crossed and crissed and bothered as I am, he feels a deal more fit to hang himself. I’ll go and do it!”
This expression of a determination, however, alluded to something in Joe Chegg’s mind which had nothing whatever to do with what lawyers term in legal language sus per col. He had made certain plans in his own head, and the cogitating over these had resulted in Mrs Berens’ paper-hangings being upside down; and for the furtherance of these plans he packed up his work for the day, went down into the kitchen, where he announced to the maids that he was going to fetch his tools, and then started off home.
That night Joe Chegg behaved furtively. He waited until it was dusk, and then went out cautiously as a conspirator, as he thought, but made enough noise to put any one upon his guard, while he felt satisfied himself that his secrecy and care were surprising.
“She can’t deceive me,” he said to himself with a satisfied grin, and, going along by fence-side and hedge, he placed himself in a position to watch, which would not have deceived a child.
The place he chose was opposite the sexton’s, where he waited till Moredock came out, somewhere about the time when other people went to bed.
Joe Chegg hailed this as a sign that the coast would be clear, and Dally Watlock soon make her appearance to keep an appointment, for he had good reason to believe that she did meet somebody, and it was to have a certain proof that he was there.
But the hours wore on, and no Dally made her appearance, and Joe Chegg’s hands went very far down into his pockets, and his forehead grew deeply knit.