To one of these, hies Mr. Wallace. Even that functionary—whose courteousness, together with that of his colleague, was pleasant to the applicant by the force of mere contrast—was equally unable to reveal the secret. “But surely,” he added, “such a place cannot, when one sets about it, be so impenetrable a mystery. I have an idea that the Miller could enlighten you.”
“The Miller?”
“Yes. He knows everything about the town. Try him.”
Mr. Wallace had business at the searching office, and having transacted it, determined to make another effort in this legitimate quarter. The following short dialogue occurred between him and the clerk:—“Pray,” said Mr. Wallace, “where are the Wills kept?”
“That’s not your business!” was the answer. Mr. Wallace returned to the charge but the clerk became deaf, and went on with some writing, precisely as if Mr. William Wallace were invisible and inaudible.
The Miller was the only resource. He was from home, and his wife gave the same answer as everybody else had done. “But,” she said, pointing to an individual who was sauntering into the Close, “there’s one as can tell ’ee. He’s a rachetty man—he is.” Without waiting to inquire the meaning of this strange expression, off starts the record-hunter upon the new secret. He runs down his game in no time. It consists of a burly biped, bearing a cage of fine ferrets. Round his person is displayed the broad insignia of office,—he is a rat-catcher.
Here Mr. William Wallace’s perseverance triumphs. The Rat-catcher knows all about it. “Why you see, Sir,” he said, “I contracts for the Registrar.”
“What for?”
“What for? Why, I catches the rats for him at so much a-year.”
“And where do you catch them?”