The Tuesday morning Mr. Davager said he should
devote to his amusement, and asked me what sights were to be seen
in the neighborhood of the town. When I had told him, he pitched
his toothpick into my grate, yawned, and went out.
I rang the bell once--waited till he had passed the window--and
then looked after Tom. There was my jewel of a boy on the
opposite side of the street, just setting his top going in the
most playful manner possible. Mr. Davager walked away up the
street toward the market-place. Tom whipped his top up the street
toward the market-place, too.
In a quarter of an hour he came back, with all his evidence
collected in a beautifully clear and compact state. Mr. Davager
had walked to a public-house just outside the town, in a lane
leading to the highroad. On a bench outside the public-house
there sat a man smoking. He said "All right?" and gave a letter
to Mr. Davager, who answered "All right!" and walked back to the
inn. In the hall he ordered hot rum-and-water, cigars, slippers,
and a fire to be lit in his room. After that he went upstairs,
and Tom came away.
I now saw my road clear before me--not very far on, but still
clear. I had housed the letter, in all probability for that
night, at the Gatliffe Arms. After tipping Tom, I gave him
directions to play about the door of the inn, and refresh himself
when he was tired at the tart-shop opposite, eating as much as he
pleased, on the understanding that he crammed all the time with
his eye on the window.
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