He determined to pay a visit to Mr. Ketch, and reproach him with his
incaution.

Mr. Ketch sat in his lodge, taking his supper: bread and cheese, and a
pint of ale procured at the nearest public-house. Except in the light
months of summer, it was his habit to close the cloister gates before
supper-time; but as Mr. Ketch liked to take that meal early--that is to
say, at eight o'clock--and, as dusk, for at least four months in the
year, obstinately persisted in putting itself off to a later hour, in
spite of his growling, and as he might not shut up before dusk, he had
no resource but to take his supper first and lock up afterwards. The
"lodge" was a quaint abode, of one room only, built in an obscure nook
of the cathedral, near the grand entrance. He was pursuing his meal
after his own peculiar custom: eating, drinking, and grumbling.

"It's worse nor leather, this cheese! Selling it to a body for
double-Gloucester! I'd like to double them as made it. Eight-pence a
pound!--and short weight beside! I wonder there ain't a law passed to
keep down the cost o' provisions!"

A pause, given chiefly to grunting, and Mr. Ketch resumed:--

"This bread's rougher nor a bear's hide! Go and ask for new, and they
palms you off with stale. They'll put a loaf a week old into the oven
to hot up again, and then sell it to you for new! There ought to be a
criminal code passed for hanging bakers. They're all cheats. They mixes
up alum, and bone-dust, and plaster of Paris, and--Drat that door!
Who's kicking at it now?"

No one was kicking. Some one was civilly knocking. The door was pushed