"There it
goes--half-past nine!" ejaculated Mr. Galloway. "What _does_ Jenkins
mean by it? He knew he was wanted early."
A sharp knock at the office door, and there entered a little dark
woman, in a black bonnet and a beard. She was Mr. Jenkins's better
half, and had the reputation for being considerably the grey mare.
"Good morning, Mr. Galloway. A pretty kettle of fish, this is!"
"What's the matter now?" asked Mr. Galloway, surprised at the address.
"Where's Jenkins?"
"Jenkins is in bed with his head plastered up. He's the greatest booby
living, and would positively have come here all the same, but I told
him I'd strap him down with cords if he attempted it. A pretty object
he'd have looked, staggering through the streets, with his head big
enough for two, and held together with white plaster!"
"What has he done to his head?" wondered Mr. Galloway.
"Good gracious! have you not heard?" exclaimed the lady, whose mode of
speech was rarely overburdened with polite words, though she meant no
disrespect by it. "He got locked up in the cloisters last night with
old Ketch and the bishop."
Mr. Galloway stared at her. He had been dining, the previous evening,
with some friends at the other end of the town, and knew nothing of the
occurrence. Had he been within hearing when the college bell tolled out
at night, he would have run to ascertain the cause as eagerly as any
schoolboy.
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