So, indeed, it turned out; for when he had settled with the
vintner--whose place of business was down in some deep cellars hard by
Thames Street, and who was as purple-faced an old gentleman as if he
had all his life supported their arched roof on his head--when he had
settled the account, and taken the receipt, and declined tasting more
than three glasses of old sherry, to the unbounded astonishment of the
purple-faced vintner, who, gimlet in hand, had projected an attack upon
at least a score of dusty casks, and who stood transfixed, or morally
gimleted as it were, to his own wall--when he had done all this, and
disposed besides of a frugal dinner at the Black Lion in Whitechapel;
spurning the Monument and John's advice, he turned his steps towards the
locksmith's house, attracted by the eyes of blooming Dolly Varden.
Joe was by no means a sheepish fellow, but, for all that, when he got
to the corner of the street in which the locksmith lived, he could by no
means make up his mind to walk straight to the house. First, he resolved
to stroll up another street for five minutes, then up another street for
five minutes more, and so on until he had lost full half an hour, when
he made a bold plunge and found himself with a red face and a beating
heart in the smoky workshop.
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