Page:Hans Brinker, Or, The Silver Skates- A Story of Life in Holland (IA hansbrinkerorsi00dodggoog).pdf/347



' factory was a mine of delight for the gossips of Birmingham. It was a small building, but quite large enough to hold a mystery. Who the proprietor was, or where he came from, none could tell. He looked like a gentleman—that was certain—though everybody knew he had risen from an apprenticeship; and he could handle his pen like a writing-master.

Years ago he had suddenly appeared in the place a lad of eighteen—learned his trade faithfully, and risen in the confidence of his employer—been taken in as a partner soon after his time was up—and, finally, when old Willett died, had assumed the business on his own hands. This was all that was known of his affairs.

It was a common remark among some of the good people that he never had a word to say to a christian soul; while others declared that though he spoke beautiful, when he chose to, there was something wrong in his accent. A tidy man, too, they called him, all but for having that scandalous green pond alongside of his factory, which wasn't deep enough for an eel, and was "just a fever-nest, as sure as you live."

His nationality was a great puzzle. The English