" "I see," he says. "Bless
you, I know these gloves very well! I've seen dozens of pairs
belonging to the same party." "No?" says I. "Yes," says he.
"Then you know who cleaned 'em?" says I. "Rather so," says he.
"My father cleaned 'em."
'"Where does your father live?" says I. "Just round the corner,"
says the young man, "near Exeter Street, here. He'll tell you who
they belong to, directly." "Would you come round with me now?"
says I. "Certainly," says he, "but you needn't tell my father that
you found me at the play, you know, because he mightn't like it."
"All right!" We went round to the place, and there we found an old
man in a white apron, with two or three daughters, all rubbing and
cleaning away at lots of gloves, in a front parlour. "Oh, Father!"
says the young man, "here's a person been and made a bet about the
ownership of a pair of gloves, and I've told him you can settle
it." "Good evening, sir," says I to the old gentleman. "Here's
the gloves your son speaks of. Letters TR, you see, and a cross."
"Oh yes," he says, "I know these gloves very well; I've cleaned
dozens of pairs of 'em. They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great
upholsterer in Cheapside.
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