'Bullpit wouldn't go to London. Why? Mr. Pardon was there. He'd go naturally to Liverpool, because Mr. Pardon was _not_ there. Now, I'll tell you about these peculiar marks of his. First, he had--a knob on the top of his head. But the knob couldn't be seen, you'll say, because he had a bushy head of hair. That's right enough, but it don't do away with the knob; he had it, and that was enough for me. I don't know as ever I had any business in connection with a man as had a knob on his head, and that circumstance made the case interesting to me. I like to do with all sorts. Second, he had a peculiarity with his teeth. The two middle ones in the top jaw--I hope you don't think I'm going to swear or use bad language; but jaw's a word, and when a word's got to be used, I use it--the two middle teeth in his top jaw had a slit between 'em, a slit as you could see daylight through, if there was such a thing in his mouth. That slit ain't much, you'll say. All right. Third, he had a habit of biting his nails. Well, now, that ain't a crime, you say. _I_ don't say it is, but he had it, and that was enough for me. These peculiarities and a general description of Bullpit--as to how tall he was (a man can't alter _that_), how stout (nor that), what kind of complexion, and other personal details--were all I had to go upon. I tracked him, without ever making a miss, in the contrary direction of Liverpool, and then back again by another road in the direction of Liverpool, and there I lost sight of him completely. But I knew he must be there, and that was enough for me. I had travelled faster than he had, and I reckoned I had gained a day and a half on him. According to my calculation, he hadn't had time to get away yet; he could only have been in Liverpool two days, and as Mr. Pardon wasn't expected home for a week after he left, there was no need for him to put on any show of hurry; it might look suspicious. Now, what should I do? Bullpit would be sure to disguise himself--clap on a pair of false whiskers and coloured spectacles perhaps, cut his hair short, wear a wig; he would certainly not walk about in the clothes he run away in. Thinking of these things I felt that Bullpit might prove more than a match for _me_. There was the knob on his head certainly; but I couldn't go up to every suspicious-looking stranger, pull off his hat, and feel for the knob; people might resent it as a liberty, and treat it accordingly. There was his habit of biting his nails; but he would be sure to restrain himself, though it is about the most difficult thing in the world for a man to keep from, when he's been accustomed to it all his life. I don't see what there is in nails except dirt to make people fond of 'em. They ain't sweet and they ain't tasty. Well, but Bullpit. He'd be cunning enough to restrain himself from biting his nails, knowing it was a mark to go by; still nails don't grow in a day, and they'd be short on _his_ fingers naturally. But he'd wear gloves.