IN DICKENS'S LONDON
well-thumbed, ink-stained account-book, and began running his finger down the index.
"S. Oh, yes—S—! Sawyer, did you say. What's his first name?"
"Robert."
"Well, it would be under the 'S'"
The finger-nail, guided by the knuckle-joint, had now reached the bottom of the page.
"No, it isn't here. Odd, too."
"What book is that?" I ventured.
"Oh, just a sort of log-book where I keep my accounts. When they pay I check 'em off. Some of them run along five years or more. Got three pounds ten from New Zealand last week. Thought the man was dead. Sawyer, did you say? Robert Sawyer. Maybe he is a lord by this time. Anyhow, if he had paid back what he owed he would be in this book."
"Don't look any further, my friend," I said—"not in a book of that kind. I am very sorry to have troubled you."
The door opened and one of Bob's fellow students blew in—an admirable expression when I consider the breeze he brought with him.
"This gentleman is inquiring about a man named Sawyer," blurted out the landlord. "Says everybody in the United States has heard of him."
Two eyes receded under two knitted eyebrows and a firm, set mouth became expressive of deepest thought.
"Sawyer—Sawyer—never heard of him. Before my time, I expect." Then he glanced at the bottle.
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