It had been arranged over-night with Betteredge, that I was to call for
him, on our way to Cobb's Hole, as early as I liked--which, interpreted
by my impatience to get possession of the letter, meant as early as
I could. Without waiting for breakfast at the Farm, I took a crust of
bread in my hand, and set forth, in some doubt whether I should not
surprise the excellent Betteredge in his bed. To my great relief he
proved to be quite as excited about the coming event as I was. I found
him ready, and waiting for me, with his stick in his hand.
"How are you this morning, Betteredge?"
"Very poorly, sir."
"Sorry to hear it. What do you complain of?"
"I complain of a new disease, Mr. Franklin, of my own inventing. I don't
want to alarm you, but you're certain to catch it before the morning is
out."
"The devil I am!"
"Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the pit of your stomach, sir? and
a nasty thumping at the top of your head? Ah! not yet? It will lay hold
of you at Cobb's Hole, Mr. Franklin. I call it the detective-fever; and
I first caught it in the company of Sergeant Cuff."
"Aye! aye! and the cure in this instance is to open Rosanna Spearman's
letter, I suppose? Come along, and let's get it.
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