Chapter 8. The Lock

           

           ArthurClennamstoodinthestreet,waitingtoasksomepasser-bywhatplacethatwas.Hesufferedafewpeopletopasshiminwhosefacetherewasnoencouragementtomaketheinquiry,andstillstoodpausinginthestreet,whenanoldmancameupandturnedintothecourtyard.

           Hestoopedagooddeal,andploddedalonginaslowpre-occupiedmanner,whichmadethebustlingLondonthoroughfaresnoverysaferesortforhim.Hewasdirtilyandmeanlydressed,inathreadbarecoat,onceblue,reachingtohisanklesandbuttonedtohischin,whereitvanishedinthepaleghostofavelvetcollar.Apieceofredclothwithwhichthatphantomhadbeenstiffenedinitslifetimewasnowlaidbare,andpokeditselfup,atthebackoftheoldman’sneck,intoaconfusionofgreyhairandrustystockandbucklewhichaltogethernearlypokedhishatoff.Agreasyhatitwas,andanapless;impendingoverhiseyes,crackedandcrumpledatthebrim,andwithawispofpocket-handkerchiefdanglingoutbelowit.Histrousersweresolongandloose,andhisshoessoclumsyandlarge,thatheshuffledlikeanelephant;thoughhowmuchofthiswasgait,andhowmuchtrailingclothandleather,noonecouldhavetold.Underonearmhecarriedalimpandworn-outcase,containingsomewindinstrument;inthesamehandhehadapennyworthofsnuffinalittlepacketofwhitey-brownpaper,fromwhichheslowlycomfortedhispoorblueoldnosewithalengthened-outpinch,asArthurClennamlookedathim.

           Tothisoldmancrossingthecourt-yard,hepreferredhisinquiry,touchinghimontheshoulder.

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