While Solomon was speaking, old John sat, mute as a stock-fish, staring
at him with an unearthly glare, and displaying, by every possible
symptom, entire and complete unconsciousness. But when Solomon was
silent again, John followed with his great round eyes the direction
of his looks, and did appear to have some dawning distant notion that
somebody had come to see him.
'You know us, don't you, Johnny?' said the little clerk, rapping himself
on the breast. 'Daisy, you know--Chigwell Church--bell-ringer--little
desk on Sundays--eh, Johnny?'
Mr Willet reflected for a few moments, and then muttered, as it were
mechanically: 'Let us sing to the praise and glory of--'
'Yes, to be sure,' cried the little man, hastily; 'that's it--that's me,
Johnny. You're all right now, an't you? Say you're all right, Johnny.'
'All right?' pondered Mr Willet, as if that were a matter entirely
between himself and his conscience. 'All right? Ah!'
'They haven't been misusing you with sticks, or pokers, or any other
blunt instruments--have they, Johnny?' asked Solomon, with a very
anxious glance at Mr Willet's head. 'They didn't beat you, did they?'
John knitted his brow; looked downwards, as if he were mentally engaged
in some arithmetical calculation; then upwards, as if the total would
not come at his call; then at Solomon Daisy, from his eyebrow to his
shoe-buckle; then very slowly round the bar.
Pages:
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745