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No sooner had his sign appeared than every merchant in town excepting Junkin, the druggist, who sold wall paper and farm machinery as side lines went into executive session in the back room of Locker's store. "He means business," said Locker. "Leased that store for five year," said Old Man Penny.
Mason was severely reprimanded, and his companions were forbidden, under pain of heavy punishment, to walk in Locker's Lane further than the corner of their own playing field. "But who is young Noaks?" asked Diggory, as Jack Vance finished a hasty account of this warfare with the Philistines. "Why, that's just the funny part of it," returned the other.
In fact, there were two, but one of them came from Mr. Locker's room, and was simply awful. Mr. Du Brant was the gentleman who sang from the lawn, and I was very sorry when he felt himself obliged to stop. I do not think very much of him, but he certainly has a pleasant voice, and plays well on the guitar.
Some one was pounding with his clinched fist at the door opening into Locker's Lane, and at the same time Jack Vance was heard shouting, "Let us in quick, or the Philistines'll have us!"
The brutal levity of the old toast, "A bloody war and a sickly season," nowhere found surer fulfilment than on those pestilence-stricken coasts. Captain Locker's health soon gave way. Arriving at Jamaica on the 19th of July, 1777, we find Nelson in the following month writing to him from the ship during an absence produced by a serious illness, from which fatal results were feared.
After service we took tea with Dean Bradley, and after tea we visited the Jerusalem Chamber. I had been twice invited to weddings in that famous room: once to the marriage of my friend Motley's daughter, then to that of Mr. Frederick Locker's daughter to Lionel Tennyson, whose recent death has been so deeply mourned.
"Yes, there was a sort of a rapping sound. Hush! there it is again." Jack heard it this time. "It's some one knocking very gently against that door leading into Locker's Lane," he whispered. They groped their way across the playground until they reached the wall. There was no mistake about it some one was gently tapping with his knuckles on the other side of the door.
In form it is something like Southey's Omniana, partly a commonplace book, partly full of original things; but the extracts are so choicely made and the original part is so delightful that it is not quite like any book in the language. If Charles Lamb had been of Mr. Locker's time and circumstances he might have made its fellow.
Glancing over the pages of My Confidences, the careless library subscriber encountered the usual number of names of well-known personages, whose appearance is supposed by publishers to add sufficient zest to reminiscences to secure for them a sale large enough, at any rate, to recoup the cost of publication. Yet, despite these names, Mr. Locker's book is completely unlike the modern memoir.
He felt it as soon as he turned into it; certainty increased as he progressed between those gigantic walls black with tall, straight, beautiful spruce. So, when he sat shoeless, resting his blistered feet on Locker's porch, he was ready to make his decision. The mere making of it was a negligible detail. So Scattergood Baines found his valley.
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