"Excuse me," I said, "do you read the newspapers?""Never! My eyesight is failing me. I abstain from reading, in the interests of my occupation.""Have you not heard the name of Zebedee mentioned--particularly by people who do read the newspapers?""Very likely; but I didn't attend to it. When the day's work is done, I take my walk. Then I have my supper, my drop of grog, and my pipe. Then I go to bed. A dull existence you think, I daresay!
I had a miserable life, sir, when I was young. A bare subsistence, and a little rest, before the last perfect rest in the grave--that is all I want. The world has gone by me long ago.
So much the better."
The poor man spoke honestly. I was ashamed of having doubted him.
I returned to the subject of the knife.
"Do you know where it was purchased, and by whom?" I asked.
"My memory is not so good as it was," he said; "but I have got something by me that helps it."He took from a cupboard a dirty old scrapbook. Strips of paper, with writing on them, were pasted on the pages, as well as Icould see. He turned to an index, or table of contents, and opened a page. Something like a flash of life showed itself on his dismal face.
