“The judges' lodgings surely,” replied the caretaker, lifting his eyes from his shovel with a look of surprise at the question.
“And the 'sizes, when are they on?”
“Next week; that's when they begin.”
The ancient custodian was evidently not of a communicative temperament, and Robbie, who was in no humor for gossip, turned away.
It was of little use to remain longer. All was over. The worst had come to the worst. He might as well turn towards home. But how hot his forehead felt! Could it have been that ducking his head in the river at Wythburn had caused it to burn like a furnace?
Robbie thought of Sim. Why had he not met him in his long ramble through the town? They might have gone home together.
At the corner of Botcher-gate and English Street there stood two shops, and as Robbie passed them the shopkeepers were engaged in an animated conversation on the event of the morning. “I saw him go by with the little daft man; yes, I did. I was just taking down my shutters, as it might be so,” said one of the two men, imitating the piece of industry in question.
“Deary me! What o'clock might that be?” asked the other.
“Well, as I say, I was just taking down my shutters, as it might be so,” imitating the gesture again. “I'd not sanded my floor, nor yet swept out my shop; so it might have been eight, and it might have been short of eight, and maybe it was somewhere between the three quarters and the hour—that's as I reckon it.”
“Deary me! deary me!” responded the other shopkeeper, whose blood was obviously curdling at the bare recital of these harrowing details.