Clare turned and went out.

But though a bilious, the baker was not an unreasonable or unjust man
except when what he had been used to believe all his life was
contradicted. Clare had not yet shut the door when he repented. He was
a good man, though not quite in the secret of the universe. He vaulted
over the counter, and opened the door with such a ringing of its
appended bell as made heavy-hearted Clare turn before he heard his
voice. The long spare white figure appeared on the threshold, framed
in the doorway.

"Hi!" it shouted.

Clare went meekly back.

"I've just remembered hearing--but mind I _know_ nothing, and pledge
myself to nothing----"

He paused.

"I didn't say I was _sure_ about it," returned Clare, thinking he
referred to the fate of the animals, "but I fear I'm to blame for not
being sure."

"Come, come!" said the baker, with a twist of his mouth that expressed
disgust, "hold your tongue, and listen to me.--I did hear, as I was
saying, that Mr. Maidstone, down the town, had one of his errand-boys
laid up with scarlet fever. I'll take you to him, if you like. Perhaps
he'll have you,--though I can't say you look respectable!"