The door was opened to him, not by the old man with whom he had
exchanged amenities on the previous night, but by a short, thick
fellow, who looked exactly like a picture of a loafer from the pages
of a comic journal. He eyed Fenn with what might have been meant for
an inquiring look. To Fenn it seemed merely menacing.
"Wodyer want?" he asked, abruptly.
Eckleton was not a great distance from London, and, as a consequence,
many of London's choicest blackguards migrated there from time to
time. During the hopping season, and while the local races were on,
one might meet with two Cockney twangs for every country accent.
"I want to see the old gentleman who lives here," said Fenn.
"Wot old gentleman?"
"I'm afraid I don't know his name. Is this a home for old gentlemen?
If you'll bring out all you've got, I'll find my one."
"Wodyer want see the old gentleman for?"
"To ask for my cap. I left it here last night."
"Oh, yer left it 'ere last night! Well, yer cawn't see 'im."
"Not from here, no," agreed Fenn. "Being only eyes, you see," he
quoted happily, "my wision's limited. But if you wouldn't mind moving
out of the way--"
"Yer cawn't see 'im. Blimey, 'ow much more of it, I should like to
know. Gerroutovit, cawn't yer! You and yer caps."
And he added a searching expletive by way of concluding the sentence
fittingly.
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