Vimpany
stopped was the door of a tavern. He ordered a glass of brandy and
water, and a cigar.
It was then the hour of the afternoon, between the time of luncheon and
the time of dinner, when the business of a tavern is generally in a
state of suspense. The dining-room was empty when Mr. Vimpany entered
it: and the waiter's unoccupied attention was in want of an object.
Having nothing else to notice, he looked at the person who had just
come in. The deluded stranger was drinking fiery potato-brandy, and
smoking (at the foreign price) an English cigar. Would his taste tell
him the melancholy truth? No: it seemed to matter nothing to him what
he was drinking or what he was smoking. Now he looked angry, and now he
looked puzzled; and now he took a long letter from his pocket, and read
it in places, and marked the places with a pencil. "Up to some
mischief," was the waiter's interpretation of these signs. The stranger
ordered a second glass of grog, and drank it in gulps, and fell into
such deep thought that he let his cigar go out. Evidently, a man in
search of an idea. And, to all appearance, he found what he wanted on a
sudden. In a hurry he paid his reckoning, and left his small change and
his unfinished cigar on the table, and was off before the waiter could
say, "Thank you.
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