He had a few books with him, but Mr. Ruddiman was not much of a reader. In
the garden of the inn, or somewhere near by, he found a spot of shade, and
there, pipe in mouth, was content to fleet the hours as they did in the
golden age. Now and then he tried to awaken his host's interest in
questions of national finance. It was one of Mr. Ruddiman's favourite
amusements to sketch Budgets in anticipation of that to be presented by the
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he always convinced himself that his own
financial expedients were much superior to those laid before Parliament.
All sorts of ingenious little imposts were constantly occurring to him, and
his mouth watered with delight at the sound of millions which might thus be
added to the national wealth. But to Mr. Fouracres such matters seemed
trivial. A churchwarden between his lips, he appeared to listen, sometimes
giving a nod or a grunt; in reality his thoughts were wandering amid bygone
glories, or picturing a day of brilliant revenge.
Much more satisfactory were the conversations between Mr. Ruddiman and his
host's daughter; they were generally concerned with the budget, not of the
nation, but of the Pig and Whistle.
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