Then he made off.
Back came Ketch, after a while. He did not know quite what to make of
it, but rather inclined to the opinion that the bishop had not waited
for him. "He might have wanted me to take a errand round to the
deanery," soliloquized he. And this thought had caused him to tarry
about the gates, so that he was absent from his lodge quite ten
minutes. The first thing he saw, on entering, was the bit of paper on
his table. He seized and opened it, grumbling aloud that folks used his
house just as they pleased, going in and out without reference to his
presence or his absence. The note, written in pencil, purported to be
from Joseph Jenkins. It ran as follows:--
My old father is coming up to our place to-night, to eat a bit of
supper, and he says he should like you to join him, which I and Mrs. J.
shall be happy if you will, at seven o'clock. It's tripe and onions.
Yours,
"J. JENKINS."
Now, if there was one delicacy, known to this world, more delicious to
old Ketch's palate than another, it was tripe, seasoned with onions.
His mouth watered as he read. He was aware that it was--to use the
phraseology of Helstonleigh--"tripe night." On two nights in the week,
tripe was sold in the town ready dressed. This was one of them, and
Ketch anticipated a glorious treat. In too great a hurry to cast so
much as a glance round his lodge (crafty Bywater had been deep), not
stopping even to put up the bread and cheese, away hobbled Ketch as
fast as his lumbago would allow him, locking safely his door, and not
having observed the absence of the keys.
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