Stopping before a door upon an upper story, which had nothing
but a yellow smear of paint where custom would have placed the
tenant's name, he began to beat the dust out of one of these keys, very
deliberately, upon the great broad handrail of the balustrade.
'You had better have a little plug made,' he said, looking round at Tom,
after blowing a shrill whistle into the barrel of the key. 'It's the
only way of preventing them from getting stopped up. You'll find the
lock go the better, too, I dare say, for a little oil.'
Tom thanked him; but was too much occupied with his own speculations,
and John Westlock's looks, to be very talkative. In the meantime Mr Fips
opened the door, which yielded to his hand very unwillingly, and with a
horribly discordant sound. He took the key out, when he had done so, and
gave it to Tom.
'Aye, aye!' said Mr Fips. 'The dust lies rather thick here.'
Truly, it did. Mr Fips might have gone so far as to say, very thick.
It had accumulated everywhere; lay deep on everything, and in one part,
where a ray of sun shone through a crevice in the shutter and struck
upon the opposite wall, it went twirling round and round, like a
gigantic squirrel-cage.
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