But the perception was akin to fear; he
started and looked nervously about, as if suddenly aware of some
peril.
One afternoon he was on his way home from a westward trudge,
plodding along the remoter part of Fulham Road, when words spoken by
a woman whom he passed caught his ears.
"See 'ere! The shutters is up. Boxon must be dead."
Boxon? How did he come to know that name? He slackened his pace,
reflecting. Why, Boxon was the name of the betting and drinking
grocer, with whom Allchin used to be. He stopped, and saw a group of
three or four women staring at the closed shop. Didn't Mrs. Hopper
say that Boxon had been nearly killed in a carriage accident?
Doubtless he was dead.
He walked on, but before he had gone a dozen yards, stopped
abruptly, turned, crossed to the other side of the road, and went
back till he stood opposite the closed shop. The name of the
tradesman in great gilt letters proved that there was no mistake. He
examined the building; there were two storys above the shop; the
first seemed to be used for storage; white blinds at the windows of
the second showed it to be inhabited. For some five minutes Will
stood gazing and reflecting; then, with head bent as before, he
pursued his way.
When he reached home, Mrs. Hopper regarded him compassionately; the
good woman was much disturbed by the strangeness of his demeanour
lately, and feared he was going to be ill.
"You look dre'ful tired, sir," she said.
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