He could not understand it. Any common butcher’s boy would be better put up. A little box of a bedroom like this, with no better testimonial to its cleanliness and airiness than could be derived from the fact that the dirty little watch-dog downstairs had occupied it! And in place of a parlour that bare gaunt room below in which to sit of an evening and take his meals and enjoy himself. Why ever had the Corporation not had the ordinary decency to have his permanent accommodation ready for him before he arrived?
He washed himself as well as he could without soap and towel, and returned to the first floor, where he found the boy back on his old stool, and once more absorbed in his paper.
The reader looked up as Reginald entered.
“Say, what’s yer name,” said he, “ever read Tim Tigerskin?”
“No, I’ve not,” replied Reginald, staring at his questioner, and wondering whether he was as erratic in his intellect as he was mealy in his countenance.
“’Tain’t a bad ’un, but ’tain’t ’arf as prime as The Pirate’s Bride. The bloke there pisons two on ’em with prussic acid, and wouldn’t ever ’ave got nabbed if he ’adn’t took some hisself by mistake, the flat!”
Reginald could hardly help smiling at this appetising résumé.
“I want something to eat,” he said. “Is there any place near here where I can get it?”
“Trum’s, but ’is sosseges is off at three o’clock. Better try Cupper’s—he’s a good ’un for bloaters; I deals with ’im.”
Reginald felt neither the spirit nor the inclination to make a personal examination into the merits of the rival caterers.