The landlord drew his breath hard, and looked at the owner of the dogs, who nodded and said gruffly that he remembered.
“I know you do, Jerry,” said Mr. Vuffin with profound meaning. “I know you remember it Jerry, and the universal opinion was, that it served him right. Why, I remember the time when old Maunders as had three-and-twenty wans—I remember the time when old Maunders had in his cottage in Spa Fields in the winter time when the season was over, eight male and female dwarfs setting down to dinner every day, who was waited on by eight old Giants in green coats, red smalls, blue cotton stockings, and high-lows: and there was one dwarf as had grown elderly and wicious who whenever his giant wasn’t quick enough to please him, used to stick pins in his legs, not being able to reach up any higher. I know that’s a fact, for Maunders told it me himself.”
“What about the dwarfs, when they get old?” inquired the landlord.
“The older a dwarf is, the better worth he is,” returned Mr. Vuffin; “a grey-headed dwarf, well wrinkled, is beyond all suspicion. But a giant weak in the legs and not standing upright!—keep him in the carawan, but never show him, never show him, for any persuasion that can be offered.”
While Mr. Vuffin and his two friends smoked their pipes and beguiled the time with such conversation as this, the silent gentleman sat in a warm corner swallowing, or seeming to swallow, sixpennyworth of halfpence for practice, balancing a feather upon his nose, and rehearsing other feats of dexterity of that kind, without paying any regard whatever to the company, who in their turn left him utterly unnoticed. At length the weary child prevailed upon her grandfather to retire, and they withdrew, leaving the company yet seated round the fire, and the dogs fast asleep at a humble distance.
After bidding the old man good night, Nell retired to her poor garret, but had scarcely closed the door, when it was gently tapped at. She opened it directly, and was a little startled by the sight of Mr. Thomas Codlin, whom she had left, to all appearance, fast asleep downstairs.
“What is the matter?” said the child.
“Nothing’s the matter my dear” returned her visitor. “I’m your friend. Perhaps you haven’t thought so, but it’s me that’s your friend—not him.”
“Not who?” the child inquired.
“Short, my dear. I tell you what” said Codlin, “for all his having a kind of way with him that you’d be very apt to like, I’m the real, openhearted man. I mayn’t look it, but I am indeed.”
The child began to be alarmed, considering that the ale had taken effect upon Mr. Codlin, and that this commendation of himself was the consequence.
“Short’s very well and seems kind” resumed the misanthrope, “but he overdoes it. Now I don’t.”
Certainly if there were any fault in Mr. Codlin’s usual deportment, it was that he rather underdid his kindness to those about him, than overdid it. But the child was puzzled and could not tell what to say.
“Take my advice,” said Codlin; “don’t ask me why, but take it. As long as you travel with us, keep as near me as you can. Don’t offer to leave us—not on any account—but always stick to me and say that I’m your friend. Will you bear that in mind my dear, and always say that it was me that was your friend?”
“Say so where—and when?” inquired the child innocently.
“Oh, nowhere in particular” replied Codlin, a little put out as it seemed by the question; “I’m only anxious that you should think me so, and do me justice. You can’t think what an interest I have in you. Why didn’t you tell me your little history—that about you and the poor old gentleman? I’m the best adviser that ever was, and so interested in you—so much more interested than Short. I think they’re breaking up downstairs; you needn’t tell Short, you know, that we’ve had this little talk together. God bless you. Recollect the friend. Codlin’s the friend, not Short. Short’s very well as far as he goes, but the real friend is Codlin—not Short.”
Eking out these professions with a number of benevolent and protecting looks and great fervor of manner, Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe, leaving the child in a state of extreme surprise. She was still ruminating upon his curious behaviour, when the floor of the crazy stairs and landing cracked beneath the tread of the other travellers who were passing to their beds. When they had all passed, and the sound of their footsteps had died away, one of them returned, and after a little hesitation and rustling in the passage, as if he were doubtful what door to knock at, knocked at hers.
“Yes?” said the child from within.
“It’s me—Short”—a voice called through the keyhole. “I only wanted to say that we must be off early tomorrow morning my dear, because unless we get the start of the dogs and the conjuror, the villages won’t be worth a penny. You’ll be sure to be stirring early and go with us? I’ll call you.”
The child answered in the affirmative, and returning his “good night” heard him creep away. She felt some uneasiness at the anxiety of these men, increased by the recollection of their whispering together downstairs and their slight confusion when she awoke, nor was she quite free from a misgiving that they were not the fittest companions she could have stumbled on. Her uneasiness, however, was nothing, weighed against her fatigue; and she soon forgot it in sleep.
Very early next morning Short fulfilled his promise, and knocking softly at her door entreated that she would get up directly, as the proprietor of the dogs was still snoring, and if they lost no time
