or, The Silver Skates 379

XLVI

THE MYSTERY OF THOMAS HIGGS

Lo ’ factory was a mine of delight for the gossips of

Birmingham. It was a small building, but quite large
enough to hold a mystery. Who the proprietor was, or where
he came from, none could tell. He looked like a gentleman,
that was certain, though everybody knew he had risen from an
apprenticeship; and he could handle his pen like a writing-
master.

Years ago he had suddenly appeared in the place, a lad of
eighteen; learned his trade faithfully, and risen in the con-
fidence of his employer; been taken in as a partner soon after
his time was up; and finally, when old Willett died, had
assumed the business on his own account. This was all that
was known of his affairs.

It was a common remark among some of the good people
that he never had a word to say to aChristian soul; while
others declared, that though he spoke beautiful, when he
chose to, there was something wrong in his accent. A tidy
man, too, they called him, all but for having that scandalous
green pond alongside of his factory, which wasn’t deep enough
for an eel, and was “just a fever-nest, as sure as you live.”

His nationality was a great puzzle. The English name
spoke plain enough for one side of his house; but of what