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"What for?" says she. "To take the responsibility of making Mr. Davager's bed off your hands for this morning only," says I. "Any more orders?" says she. "One more," says I. "I want to hire Sam for the morning. Put it down in the order-book that he's to be brought round to my office at ten." In case you should think Sam was a man, I'd better perhaps tell you he was a pony.
After tipping Tom, I gave him directions to play about the door of the inn, and refresh himself when he was tired at the tart-shop opposite, eating as much as he pleased, on the understanding that he crammed all the time with his eye on the window. If Mr. Davager went out, or Mr. Davager's friend called on him, Tom was to let me know.
Every way that "5 along" and "4 across" could be reckoned on those unlucky fringes I reckoned on them probed with my penknife scratched with my nails crunched with my fingers. No use; not a sign of a letter; and the time was getting on oh, Lord! how the time did get on in Mr. Davager's room that morning.
Davager was going to bed in rather a drunken condition; Mr. Davager's friend had never appeared. At half-past seven next morning, I slipped quietly into Boots's pantry. Down came the clothes. No pockets in trousers. Waistcoat-pockets empty. Coat-pockets with something in them. First, handkerchief; secondly, bunch of keys; thirdly, cigar-case; fourthly, pocketbook.
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