“My father lives in the street of the second among the English authors,” he said.
“Now then, now then,” said the bald-headed man. “If you talk in that way I’ll promise you it will be ’otted up for you.”
“I—I know the author’s name quite well,” said the boy, disregarding this reproof, for his mind was reverting now to the little room, which already he seemed to have left an epoch ago. “The name begins with the letter M. M—Mi—Mil—it is the street of Milton!”
“Milton Street—vendor of old books in Milton Street. What number?”
“N-number!” muttered the boy blankly. “N-number. Oh yes! The number of the shop of my father is the number of the year in which Ovid was born.”
“Hovvid!” said the bald-headed man impatiently. “Who the ’ell’s Hovvid? Do you know, Harby, who Hovvid is?”
“Not I!” said a solemn, grey-headed police constable. “Do you know, Pearson?”
“Hovvid!” said a police constable with mutton-chop whiskers. “Can’t say as ’ow I do. Sounds like the name of a ’oss.”
“Do you mean, my lad,” said the bald-headed man, “the number o’ the year a ’oss o’ the name of Hovvid won the Derby?”
“A ’oss o’ the name of Hovvid never did win the Derby,” said the police constable with mutton-chop whiskers decisively.