Before we were clear of the passages downstairs, I was stopped by
Betteredge, just as I was passing the door which led into his own room.
"Could I say two words to you in private?" he asked, in a mysterious
whisper.
I consented of course. Mr. Blake walked on to wait for me in the garden,
while I accompanied Betteredge into his room. I fully anticipated a
demand for certain new concessions, following the precedent already
established in the cases of the stuffed buzzard, and the Cupid's wing.
To my great surprise, Betteredge laid his hand confidentially on my arm,
and put this extraordinary question to me:
"Mr. Jennings, do you happen to be acquainted with ROBINSON CRUSOE?"
I answered that I had read ROBINSON CRUSOE when I was a child.
"Not since then?" inquired Betteredge.
"Not since then."
He fell back a few steps, and looked at me with an expression of
compassionate curiosity, tempered by superstitious awe.
"He has not read ROBINSON CRUSOE since he was a child," said Betteredge,
speaking to himself--not to me. "Let's try how ROBINSON CRUSOE strikes
him now!"
He unlocked a cupboard in a corner, and produced a dirty and dog's-eared
book, which exhaled a strong odour of stale tobacco as he turned over
the leaves.
Pages:
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781