He was always dressed in the same fashion, and carried a black music-case under his arm.

He had an eternal interest for Jeremy because, whenever he was mentioned, the phrase was: "Poor little Mr.
Dawson!" Why he was to be pitied Jeremy did not know.

He looked spruce and bright enough, and generally whistled to himself as he walked; but "poor" was an exciting adjective, and Jeremy, when he passed him, felt a little shudder of drama run down his spine.
Outside Poole's bookshop there was, of course, Mr.Mockridge.

Mr.
Mockridge was the poorest of the Canons; so poor, that it had become a proverb in the place: "As poor as Mr.Mockridge"; and also another proverb, I am afraid, from the same source: "As dirty as Mr.Mockridge." He was a very long, thin man, with a big, pointing nose, coloured red, not from indigestion, and most certainly not from drink, but simply, I think, because the wind caught it.

His passion was for books, and he might be seen every afternoon, between three and four o'clock, bending over Poole's 2d.