"Very sorry, sir. Can you leave them with me?"
"O yes, I'll leave them. What's the news, eh?" said Christian, half seating himself on a high stool, and beating his boot with a hand-whip.
"Well, sir, we look to you to tell us that," said Mr Pink, with a knowing smile. "You're at headquarters—eh, sir? That was what I said to Mr Scales the other day. He came for some straps, Mr Scales did, and he asked that question in pretty near the same terms that you've done, sir, and I answered him, as I may say, ditto. Not meaning any disrespect to you, sir, but a way of speaking."
"Come, that's gammon, Pink,"' said Christian. "You know everything. You can tell me, if you will, who is the fellow employed to paste up Transome's handbills?"
"What do you say, Mr Sims?" said Pink, looking at the auctioneer.
"Why, you know and I know well enough. It's Tommy Trounsem—an old, crippling, half-mad fellow. Most people know Tommy. I've employed him myself for charity."
"Where shall I find him?" said Christian.
"At the Cross-Keys, in Pollard's End, most likely," said Mr Sims. "I don't know where he puts himself when he isn't at the public."
