“Why, to tell you the truth,” said the old man, with a smile, “there is one thing to the knowledge of which I could never exactly attain.”

“Do you mean to say,” said I, “that you do not know what’s o’clock?”

“I can give a guess,” said the old man, “to within a few minutes.”

“But you cannot tell the exact moment?”

“No,” said the old man.

“In the name of wonder,” said I, “with that thing there on the wall continually ticking in your ear, how comes it that you do not know what’s o’clock?”

“Why,” said the old man, “I have contented myself with giving a tolerably good guess; to do more would have been too great trouble.”

“But you have learnt Chinese,” said I.

“Yes,” said the old man, “I have learnt Chinese.”

“Well,” said I, “I really would counsel you to learn to know what’s o’clock as soon as possible.  Consider what a sad thing it would be to go out of the world not knowing what’s o’clock.  A millionth part of the trouble required to learn Chinese would, if employed, infallibly teach you to know what’s o’clock.”

“I had a motive for learning Chinese,” said the old man, “the hope of appeasing the misery in my head.  With respect to not knowing what’s o’clock, I cannot see anything particularly sad in the matter.  A man may get through the world very creditably without knowing what’s o’clock.  Yet, upon the whole, it is no bad thing to know what’s o’clock—­you, of course, do?  It would be too good a joke if two people were to be together, one knowing Armenian and the other Chinese, and neither knowing what’s o’clock.  I’ll now see you off.”

CHAPTER XXXVI

Arrival at Horncastle—­The Inn and Ostlers—­The Garret—­Figure of a Man with a Candle.

Leaving the house of the old man who knew Chinese, but could not tell what was o’clock, I wended my way to Horncastle, which I reached in the evening of the same day, without having met any adventure on the way worthy of being marked down in this very remarkable history.

The town was a small one, seemingly ancient, and was crowded with people and horses.  I proceeded, without delay, to the inn to which my friend the surgeon had directed me.  “It is of no use coming here,” said two or three ostlers, as I entered the yard—­“all full--no room whatever;” whilst one added in an undertone, “That ere a’n’t a bad-looking horse.”  “I want to see the master of this inn,” said I, as I dismounted from the horse.  “See the master,” said an ostler—­the same who had paid the negative kind of compliment to the horse—­“a likely thing, truly; my master is drinking wine with some of the grand gentry, and can’t be disturbed for the sake of the like of you.”  “I bring a letter to him,” said I, pulling out the surgeon’s epistle.  “I wish you would deliver it to him,” I added, offering a half-crown.  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the ostler, taking the letter