door, uttered the words “He’s comed, sir,” and vanished.
Mr. Moore raised not his eyes from the paper. A large man, broad-shouldered and massive-limbed, clad in fustian garments and grey-worsted stockings, entered, who was received with a nod, and desired to take a seat; which he did, making the remark—as he removed his hat (a very bad one), stowed it away under his chair, and wiped his forehead with a spotted cotton handkerchief extracted from the hatcrown—that it was “Raight dahn warm for Febewerry.” Mr. Moore assented: at least he uttered some slight sound, which, though inarticulate, might pass for an assent. The visitor now carefully deposited in the corner beside him an official-looking staff which he bore in his hand; this done, he whistled, probably by way of appearing at his ease.
“You have what is necessary, I suppose,” said Mr. Moore.
“Ay! ay! all’s raight.”
He renewed his whistling, Mr. Moore his reading: the paper apparently had become more interesting. Presently, however, he turned to his cupboard, which was within reach of his long arm, opened it without rising, took out a black bottle—the same he had produced for Malone’s benefit—a tumbler, and a jug, placed them on the table, and said to his guest,—
