CHAPTER XXIII
THE PARLOUR-LODGER
There was a tolerably snug parlour under the roof of the
Fox and Fiddle, notwithstanding that its dimensions were
small, its floor uneven, and its ceiling so low that a solitary
inmate could not but feel enlivened by the company of the
landlord's family, who inhabited the rooms overhead. This
apartment, which was usually occupied by some skipper
from beyond seas, put forward certain claims to magnificence
as well as comfort; and although the vaguest attempts at
cleanliness seemed to have been suppressed, there was no
little pretension apparent in the furniture, the chimney
ornaments, and the "History of the Prodigal Son" on the
walls. China shepherdesses stood on the mantelpiece, surmounted
by the backbone of a shark. Two gilt chairs, with
frayed velvet cushions, supported an unframed representation
of a three-decker, with every available sail set, and British
colours flying at the main, stemming a grass-green sea,
under a sky of intense blue. A contracted square of real
Turkey carpet covered a few feet in the middle, and the rest
of the floor, ornamented at regular intervals by spittoons,
stood inch-deep in dust. The hearth could not have been
swept for days, nor the smouldering fire raked out for hours;
but on a mahogany sideboard, that had obviously sustained
at least one sea-voyage, stood a dozen different drinking-measures,
surrounding a punch-bowl capacious enough to
have baptized a full-grown pirate.
The occupant of this chamber was sitting at the table engrossed by a task that seemed to tax all his energies and employ his whole attention. He was apparently no adept
