The county town to which Mr Headstone was bound boasted a proud and ancient lineage, and had, in one way or another, featured in many of the chapters of this island's history. It had once been a garrison for the Romans, who, having settled in Britain without the express invitation of the country's population, often found themselves in need of a fortified residence to allow them to sleep easily in their beds. On the eventual departure of these thin-blooded gentlemen from our shores on account of the poor climate, the region was subject to several centuries of discord and discontent on account of the fact that the various kingdoms into which the country was at that time divided were unable to arrive at any agreement on any subject whatsoever. The town's name was set down for posterity (and an annual demand from the exchequer) in the Doomsday Book by William the Conqueror, who as every schoolboy knows - as well as being the author of that weighty tome - achieved lasting fame in the field of combat by putting out his rival's eye with a sharp stick and winning the Battle of Hastings on the strength of his ocular advantage.
The above facts (if facts they were) - along with numerous anecdotes that involved burnt cakes, butts of malmsey and fallen fruit - comprised the sum total of Mr Headstone's knowledge on the history of his nation, a subject in which he professed to have great interest despite the fact that he was entirely ignorant of its most rudimentary principles. In order to further enrich his knowledge of his island forebears, he determined to take the opportunity afforded by his visit to learn something of the town's past, and with this view in mind engaged a man in a slouched hat whom he found lounging at the coaching station to provide him with a tour of the principal landmarks and areas of historical significance. The man was a stoutly built fellow of about five and thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings. Beneath the brim of his hat he disclosed a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three weeks' growth, and two scowling eyes. He answered to the name of Sikes, and had a terrier that answered to the name of Bull's Eye.
Mr Headstone, who prided himself on being an excellent judge of character, was only too willing to take Mr Sikes's standing as a scholar and a man of local learning on that gentleman's own cognisance and, placing half a crown in his outstretched grimy palm, he bade him lead on. It was a singular revelation to Mr Headstone that the history of that ancient town, along whose darker alleys and by-ways they now traversed, should be so inextricably linked with the public taverns of the place. Mr Sikes could not pass an ale house without stopping for refreshment and giving a dramatic account of how the Duke of Such and Such had fallen on this very spot in the execution of some historical business of an indeterminate nature. In his re-enactments of these momentous occasions, Mr Sikes was materially assisted by the encouragement of the other patrons, all of whom seemed to be on familiar terms and were eager to commend their good opinion of him to his client.
As it was approaching midnight and the moon had gone behind the clouds, Mr Sikes proposed a visit to the ruins of the old Roman fort, which was in a secluded place and unlikely to be frequented by any other individuals. To this proposal, Mr Headstone readily assented. What the outcome of their expedition was - if the astute reader has not already anticipated it - will be the subject of our next communication.
Mr Charles Dickens
