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and closely at the gravel for footprints before he raised his
eyes to the windows.
‘Do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in
the same room when he’s on a visit here, Miss Summerson?’
he inquired, glancing at Mr. Skimpole’s usual chamber.
‘You know Mr. Skimpole!’ said I.
‘What do you call him again?’ returned Mr. Bucket,
bending down his ear. ‘Skimpole, is it? I’ve often wondered
what his name might be. Skimpole. Not John, I should say,
nor yet Jacob?’
‘Harold,’ I told him.
‘Harold. Yes. He’s a queer bird is Harold,’ said Mr. Buck-
et, eyeing me with great expression.
‘He is a singular character,’ said I.
‘No idea of money,’ observed Mr. Bucket. ‘He takes it,
though!’
I involuntarily returned for answer that I perceived Mr.
Bucket knew him.
‘Why, now I’ll tell you, Miss Summerson,’ he replied.
‘Your mind will be all the better for not running on one
point too continually, and I’ll tell you for a change. It was
him as pointed out to me where Toughey was. I made up my
mind that night to come to the door and ask for Toughey, if
that was all; but willing to try a move or so first, if any such
was on the board, I just pitched up a morsel of gravel at that
window where I saw a shadow. As soon as Harold opens it
and I have had a look at him, thinks I, you’re the man for
me. So I smoothed him down a bit about not wanting to
disturb the family after they was gone to bed and about its

1152 Bleak House