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CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTEDmake me out a blooming treasure trove! Do I look like aTreasure Trove? And then a gentleman gave me a guineaa night to tell the story at the Empire Music ’All–just totell ’em in my own words–barring one."And if you want to cut off the flow of his reminiscencesabruptly, you can always do so by asking if there weren’tthree manuscript books in the story. He admits there wereand proceeds to explain, with asseverations that everybodythinks he has ’em! But bless you! he hasn’t. "TheInvisible Man it was took ’em off to hide ’em when I cutand ran for Port Stowe. It’s that Mr. Kemp put people onwith the idea of my having ’em."And then he subsides into a pensive state, watches youfurtively, bustles nervously with glasses, and presentlyleaves the bar.He is a bachelor man–his tastes were ever bachelor, andthere are no women folk in the house. Outwardly hebuttons–it is expected of him–but in his more vital privacies,in the matter of braces for example, he still turnsto string. He conducts his house without enterprise, butwith eminent decorum. His movements are slow, and heis a great thinker. But he has a reputation for wisdomand for a respectable parsimony in the village, and his266
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTEDknowledge of the roads of the South of England wouldbeat Cobbett.And on Sunday mornings, every Sunday morning, allthe year round, while he is closed to the outer world, andevery night after ten, he goes into his bar parlour, bearinga glass of gin faintly tinged with water, and havingplaced this down, he locks the door and examines theblinds, and even looks under the table. And then, beingsatisfied of his solitude, he unlocks the cupboard and abox in the cupboard and a drawer in that box, and producesthree volumes bound in brown leather, and placesthem solemnly in the middle of the table. The covers areweather-worn and tinged with an algal green–for oncethey sojourned in a ditch and some of the pages have beenwashed blank by dirty water. The landlord sits down inan armchair, fills a long clay pipe slowly–gloating overthe books the while. Then he pulls one towards him andopens it, and begins to study it–turning over the leavesbackwards and forwards.His brows are knit and his lips move painfully. "Hex,little two up in the air, cross and a fiddle-de-dee. Lord!what a one he was for intellect!"Presently he relaxes and leans back, and blinks through267
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CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HUNTER HUNTED
knowledge of the roads of the South of England would
beat Cobbett.
And on Sunday mornings, every Sunday morning, all
the year round, while he is closed to the outer world, and
every night after ten, he goes into his bar parlour, bearing
a glass of gin faintly tinged with water, and having
placed this down, he locks the door and examines the
blinds, and even looks under the table. And then, being
satisfied of his solitude, he unlocks the cupboard and a
box in the cupboard and a drawer in that box, and produces
three volumes bound in brown leather, and places
them solemnly in the middle of the table. The covers are
weather-worn and tinged with an algal green–for once
they sojourned in a ditch and some of the pages have been
washed blank by dirty water. The landlord sits down in
an armchair, fills a long clay pipe slowly–gloating over
the books the while. Then he pulls one towards him and
opens it, and begins to study it–turning over the leaves
backwards and forwards.
His brows are knit and his lips move painfully. "Hex,
little two up in the air, cross and a fiddle-de-dee. Lord!
what a one he was for intellect!"
Presently he relaxes and leans back, and blinks through
267
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