From mere idle curiosity, I looked close at the rags, and saw
among them something like an old cravat. I took it up directly
and held it under a gaslight. The pattern was blurred lilac lines
running across and across the dingy black ground in a
trellis-work form. I looked at the ends: one of them was torn
off.
How I managed to hide the breathless surprise into which this
discovery threw me I cannot say, but I certainly contrived to
steady my voice somehow, and to ask for my candles calmly when
the man and woman serving in the shop, having disposed of their
other customers, inquired of me what I wanted.
As the man took down the candles, my brain was all in a whirl
with trying to think how I could get possession of the old cravat
without exciting any suspicion. Chance, and a little quickness on
my part in taking advantage of it, put the object within my reach
in a moment. The man, having counted out the candles, asked the
woman for some paper to wrap them in. She produced a piece much
too small and flimsy for the purpose, and declared, when he
called for something better, that the day's supply of stout paper
was all exhausted. He flew into a rage with her for managing so
badly. Just as they were beginning to quarrel violently, I
stepped back to the rag-counter, took the old cravat carelessly
out of the bundle, and said, in as light a tone as I could
possibly assume:
"Come, come, don't let my candles be the cause of hard words
between you.
Pages:
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571