The bunch of witnesses in the side street increased every instant. Persons riding on the outsides of the omnibuses stood up to look. Policemen on point-duty came out of the press of the traffic to gaze with concern and inquiry at the smoke which now was belching forth in a black mass.
“Must ha’ begun in the chimbley,” said one of Northcote’s neighbors, a man without a collar. “That’s soot.”
“It’s Pearmain’s Hotel,” said another.
“No,” said a third, “it’s Shepherd’s Inn.”
“If it’s Shepherd’s Inn it will take it all,” said a fourth. “It has been condemned by the County Council for the past two years. It is so crazy it can hardly stand up in a gale.”
“It is rotten and rat-ridden from top to bottom. It must be five hundred years old.”
“Five ’undred me leg,” said the man without a collar. “It ain’t more than two.”
“Lord Bacon lived in it, anyway.”
“Wot if he did? I tell you it ain’t more than two.”
The controversialist spat on the pavement authoritatively, and those who surrounded him, who knew he was wrong, deferred to his opinion humbly.