A Settler in Cloisterham
At about this time, a stranger appeared in Cloisterham; a white-haired personage with black eyebrows. Being buttoned up in a tightish blue surtout, with a buff waistcoat and gray trousers, he had something of a military air, but he announced himself at the Crozier (the orthodox hotel, where he put up with a portmanteau) as an idle dog who lived upon his means; and he farther announced that he had a mind to take a lodging in the picturesque old city for a month or two, with a view of settling down there altogether. Both announcements were made in the coffee-room of the Crozier, to all whom it might, or might not, concern, by the stranger as he stood with his back to the empty fireplace, waiting for his fried sole, veal cutlet, and pint of sherry. And the waiter (business being chronically slack at the Crozier) represented all whom it might or might not concern, and absorbed the whole of the information.
This gentleman’s white head was unusually large, and his shock of white hair was unusually thick and ample. “I suppose, waiter,” he said, shaking his shock of hair, as a Newfoundland dog might shake his before sitting down to dinner, “that a fair lodging for a single buffer might be found in these parts, eh?”
The waiter had no doubt of it.
“Something old,” said the gentleman. “Take my hat down for a moment from that peg, will you? No, I don’t want it; look into it. What do you see written there?”
The waiter read: “Datchery.”