The
"lodge" was a quaint abode, of one room only, built in an obscure nook
of the cathedral, near the grand entrance. He was pursuing his meal
after his own peculiar custom: eating, drinking, and grumbling.
"It's worse nor leather, this cheese! Selling it to a body for
double-Gloucester! I'd like to double them as made it. Eight-pence a
pound!--and short weight beside! I wonder there ain't a law passed to
keep down the cost o' provisions!"
A pause, given chiefly to grunting, and Mr. Ketch resumed:--
"This bread's rougher nor a bear's hide! Go and ask for new, and they
palms you off with stale. They'll put a loaf a week old into the oven
to hot up again, and then sell it to you for new! There ought to be a
criminal code passed for hanging bakers. They're all cheats. They mixes
up alum, and bone-dust, and plaster of Paris, and--Drat that door!
Who's kicking at it now?"
No one was kicking. Some one was civilly knocking. The door was pushed
slightly open, and the inoffensive face of Mr. Joseph Jenkins appeared
in the aperture.
"I say, Mr. Ketch," began he in a mild tone of deprecation, "whatever
is it that you have gone and done?"
"What d'ye mean?" growled old Ketch. "Is this a way to come and set
upon a gentleman in his own house? Who taught you manners, Joe
Jenkins?"
"You have been repeating what I mentioned last night about Lady
Augusta's son getting the seniorship," said Jenkins, coming in and
closing the door.
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