He paid no attention to the typical signs, animate or inanimate, he met with on his road, but walked straight on till he arrived at a three-storied house, in the windows of which not a glimmer of light was to be seen. Striking a match, he held it up to the knocker of the street door, beneath which the number of the house was painted in fast-fading figures; and convincing himself with some difficulty that he had reached his destination, he put his hand to the knocker to summon the inmates. But the knocker had seen its best days, and was almost past knocking. Rust and age had so stiffened its joints that it required a determined effort to move it from its cushion; and being moved, there it stuck in mid-air, obstinately declining to perform its office. Failing to produce a sound that would have any effect upon human ears, Mr. Fox-Cordery turned his attention to the bells, of which there were six or seven. As there was no indication of the particular bell which would serve him, he pulled them all, one after the other. Some were mute, some gave forth the faintest tinkle, and one remained in his hand, refusing to come farther forward or to go back; the result of his pulling being that not the slightest attention was paid to the summons by anyone in the house. The appearance of a hobbledehoy promised to be of assistance to him. This hobbledehoy was a stripling of same thirteen summers; his shirt-sleeves turned(?) up, and he carried in his hand a pewter pot of beer which he occasionally put his lips, not daring to go deeper than the froth, from fear of consequences from the lawful owner. "Mr. Rathbeal lives here, doesn't he?" inquired Mr. Fox-Cordery. The hobbledehoy surveyed the gentleman, and became instantly lost in admiration. Such a vision of perfect dressing had probably never presented itself to him before. Open-mouthed he gazed and worshiped. Mr. Fox-Cordery aroused him from his dream by repeating the question. "Lots o' people lives 'ere," he replied. "Who's Mr. What's-his-name, when he's at 'ome, and does 'is mother know he's out when he ain't?" Mr. Fox-Cordery spelt the name, letter by letter--"R-a-t-h-b-e-a-l." "Don't know the gent," said the hobbledehoy. "Is he a sport?" No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say he was a sport. "Is he a coster?" No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say he was a coster. "Is it sweeps?" No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say it was sweeps. "Give it up," said the hobbledehoy. "Arsk me another." Another did not readily present itself to Mr. Fox-Cordery's usually fertile mind, and he stood irresolute. "I tell yer wot," suggested the hobbledehoy. "Give me tuppence, and I'll go through the lot." With a wry face, Mr. Fox-Cordery produced the coppers, which the hobbledehoy spun in the air, and pocketed. Then he conscientiously went through the list of the inmates of the house from basement to attic, Mr. Fox-Cordery shaking his head at each introduction.