“He’s married. I know. Now then, old Solomon, if you can answer a plain question, where does he live now?”
“Mrs Pinet’s house, yonder on the left, where the porch stands out, and the flower-pots are in the window.”
“Humph! hasn’t moved, then. Let’s see,” muttered the visitor, “that’s where I took the flower-pot to throw at the dog. No: that’s the house.”
“Can I—?” began Gemp insidiously.
“No, thankye. Good evening,” said the visitor. “You can tell ’em I’ve come. Ta ta! Gossipping old fool!” he added to himself, as he walked quickly down the street; while, after staring after him for a few minutes, Gemp turned sharply on his heel, and made for Gorringe’s—Mr Gorringe being the principal tailor.
Mr Gorringe’s day’s work was done, consequently his legs were uncrossed, and he was seated in a Christian-like manner—that is to say, in a chair just inside his door, smoking his evening pipe, but still in his shirtsleeves, and with an inch tape gracefully hanging over his neck and shoulders.
“I say, neighbour,” cried Gemp eagerly, “you bank with Dixons’.”
Mr Gorringe’s pipe fell from his hand, and broke into a dozen pieces upon the floor.
“Is—is anything wrong?” he gasped; “and it’s past banking hours.”
“Yah! get out!” cried old Gemp, showing his yellow teeth. “You’re always thinking about your few pence in the bank. Why, I bank there, and you don’t see me going into fits. Yah! what a coward you are!”