But
Goldthorpe gave only a glance at this still life; his interest was
engrossed by a human figure, seated on a campstool near the back wall of
the house, and holding a concertina, whence, at this moment, in slow,
melancholy strain, 'Home, Sweet Home' began to wheeze forth. The player was
a middle-aged man, dressed like a decent clerk or shopkeeper, his head
shaded with an old straw hat rather too large for him, and on his feet--one
of which swung as he sat with legs crossed--a pair of still more ancient
slippers, also too large. With head aside, and eyes looking upward, he
seemed to listen in a mild ecstasy to the notes of his instrument. He had a
round face of much simplicity and good-nature, semicircular eyebrows,
pursed little mouth with abortive moustache, and short thin beard fringing
the chinless lower jaw. Having observed this unimposing person for a minute
or two, himself unseen, Goldthorpe surveyed the rear of the building,
anxious to discover any sign of its still serving as human habitation; but
nothing spoke of tenancy. The windows on this side were not boarded, and
only a few panes were broken; but the chief point of contrast with the
desolate front was made by a Virginia creeper, which grew luxuriantly up to
the eaves, hiding every sign of decay save those dim, dusty apertures which
seemed to deny all possibility of life within.
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