'Going to Belmont,' murmured little Toole, with his face a little redder
than usual, and stopping in an undignified way for a moment at the
corner to look after him. 'He's close--plaguy close; and Miss Rebecca
Chattesworth knows nothing about him neither--I wander does she
though--and doesn't seem to care even. He's not there for nothing
though. _Some_ one makes him welcome, depend on't,' and he winked to
himself. 'A plaguy high stomach, too, by Jove. I bet you fifty, if he
stays here three months, he'll be at swords or pistols with some of our
hot bloods. And whatever his secret is--and I dare say 'tisn't worth
knowing--the people here will ferret it out at last, I warrant you.
There's small good in making all the fuss he does about it; if he knew
but all, there's no such thing as a secret here--hang the one have _I_,
I know, just because there's no use in trying. The whole town knows when
I've tripe for dinner, and where I have a patch or a darn. And when I
got the fourteen pigeons at Darkey's-bridge, the birds were not ten
minutes on my kitchen table when old Widow Foote sends her maid and her
compliments, as she knew my pie-dish only held a dozen, to beg the two
odd birds.
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