ho! Lock! Plashwater Weir Mill Lock!”
The bargeman stopped, and looked back.
“Plashwater Weir Mill Lock, t’otherest gov—er—nor—or—or—or!” cried Mr. Riderhood, with his hands to his mouth.
The bargeman turned back. Approaching nearer and nearer, the bargeman became Bradley Headstone, in rough waterside secondhand clothing.
“Wish I may die,” said Riderhood, smiting his right leg, and laughing, as he sat on the grass, “if you ain’t ha’ been a imitating me, t’otherest governor! Never thought myself so good-looking afore!”
Truly, Bradley Headstone had taken careful note of the honest man’s dress in the course of that night-walk they had had together. He must have committed it to memory, and slowly got it by heart. It was exactly reproduced in the dress he now wore. And whereas, in his own schoolmaster clothes, he usually looked as if they were the clothes of some other man, he now looked, in the clothes of some other man or men, as if they were his own.