Mr. Tinnnan's house
was inquired for. Crickledon left off planing; at half-sprawl over the
board, he bawled out, "Turn to the right; right ahead; can't mistake it."
He nodded to one of the cronies intent on watching his labours: "Not
unless they mean to be bait for whiting-pout. Who's that for Tinman, I
wonder?" The speculations of Crickledon's friends were lost in the scream
of the plane.
One cast an eye through the door and observed that the carriage was there
still. "Gentleman's got out and walked," said Crickledon. He was informed
that somebody was visible inside. "Gentleman's wife, mayhap," he said.
His friends indulged in their privilege of thinking what they liked, and
there was the usual silence of tongues in the shop. He furnished them
sound and motion for their amusement, and now and then a scrap of
conversation; and the sedater spirits dwelling in his immediate
neighbourhood were accustomed to step in and see him work up to
supper-time, instead of resorting to the more turbid and costly
excitement of the public-house.
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