Fogo's attention.
"Does it never strike you," he asked one day as Caleb was stooping
over the wood-pile, "that the repairs in your trousers, Caleb, are a
trifle emphatic? _Purpureus, late qui splendeat_--h'm, h'm--
_adsuitur pannus_. I mean, in the seat of your--"
"Conscience, sir," said Caleb abruptly. "Some ties a bit o' string
round the finger to help the mem'ry. I does et this way."
"Well, well, I should have thought it more apt to assist the memory
of others. Still, of course, you know best."
And Mr. Fogo resumed his work, and thought no more about it; but
Caleb alternated between moods of pensiveness and fussy energy for
some days after.
In Troy, summer was leading on a train of events not to be classed
among periodic phenomena. It stands on record, for instance--
That Loo began to be played at the Club, and the Admiral's weekly
accounts to grow less satisfactory than in the days when he and Mrs.
Buzza were steadfast opponents at Whist.
That Mrs. Simpson discovered her great uncle to have been a baronet
on this earth.
That Mrs. Payne had prefixed "Ellicome" to her surname, and spoke of
"_the_ Ellicome-Paynes, you know."
That Mr. Moggridge had been heard to speak of Sam Buzza as a
"low fellow."
That Sam had retorted by terming the poet a "conceited ass.
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