“You relieve my mind. Offer my congratulations to your parents!”
Mr. Scunthorpe thought this over, with knit brow, but could make nothing of it. He put Mr. Beaumaris right on one point “Only one parent,” he said. “Father died three months after I was born.”
“Very understandable,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “I am astonished that he lingered on for so long. Where is this Cock you speak of?”
“Thing is—not sure I ought to tell you!” said Mr. Scunthorpe.
“Take my word for it, you will be doing your misguided friend an extremely ill-turn if you don’t tell me!”
“Well, it’s at the corner of Duck Lane, Tothill Fields,” confided Mr. Scunthorpe, capitulating.
“Good God!” said Mr. Beaumaris, and drove off.
The Cock inn, however, though a small, squat building, proved to be more respectable than its situation had led Mr. Beaumaris to suppose. Duck Lane might abound in filth of every description, left to rot in the road, but the Cock seemed to be moderately clean, and well-kept. It even boasted an ostler, who emerged from the stable to gape at the tilbury. When he understood that the swell handling the ribbons had not merely stopped to enquire the way, but really did desire him to take charge of his horse and carriage, a vision of enormous largesse danced before his eyes, and he hastened to assure this noble client that he was ready to bestow his undivided attention on the equipage.
Mr. Beaumaris then descended from the tilbury, and walked into the tap of the inn, where his appearance caused a waterman, a jarvey off duty, two bricklayer’s labourers, a scavenger, and the landlord to break off their conversation in mid-sentence to stare at him.
“Good-morning!” said Mr. Beaumaris. “You have a Mr. Anstey putting up here, I think?”