“Marks—wall?” said Richard.
“Ah, you don’t understand the rumboon, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, pointing with a pair of scissors to various little dents and scratches on the wall, as she still held up the widow’s cap. “Those places are what he used to make when he shot the thing out to get his low notes—doing his octaves, sir.”
“Indeed,” said Richard, recalling the action of the trombone player in the marine band on board his last ship.
“Perhaps you’d like to see the bedroom, sir?”
“Would you mind seeing that for me, Mrs Jenkles?” said Richard.
“It’s plain, sir, but everything at Mrs Fiddison’s here is as clean as hands can make it,” said Mrs Jenkles, glancing from one to the other.
“Then it will do,” said Richard. “And the terms?”
“Seven shillings my last lodger paid me, sir,” said Mrs Fiddison, drooping more and more, and evidently now much impressed by one of Richard’s boots. “I did hope to get seven and six for them now, as there’s a new table-cover.”
Richard glanced at the new cotton check on the table.
“Then I’ll pay you seven and sixpence,” he said.