A Rolling Stone by B. M. Croker

Wynyard strolled out into the little front garden along the red brick path to the wooden gate; as he closed this, he observed that it bore in large characters the enticing name of "Holiday Cottage. " He smiled rather grimly as he looked back at his new residence, a wood and plaster construction, bowed in the upper storey, with small, insignificant windows. Then he glanced up and down the empty thoroughfare, and was struck by the deathlike silence of the place. What had become of the residents of Ottinge? A flock of soiled, white ducks waddling home in single file from the marshes, and a wall-eyed sheep-dog, were the only live objects in sight.

Ottinge was undeniably ancient and picturesque, a rare field for an artist; the houses were detached -- no two alike -- and appeared to have been built without the smallest attempt at regularity. Some stood sideways at right angles; others had turned their backs upon the street, and overlooked the fields; many were timbered; several were entirely composed of black boarding; one or two were yellow; but the majority were of rusty brick, with tiled and moss-grown roofs. Wynyard noticed the ivy-clad house or "dogs" hotel, with its three rows of long, prim windows, and close by another of the same class, with a heavy yew porch that recalled a great moustache. On its neat green gate was affixed a brass plate and the inscription -- D. BOAS, M. D. Farther on at intervals were more houses and a few scattered shops; these looked as if they were anxious to conceal their identity, and only suffered a limited display of their wares. Chief among them was one double-fronted, with tins of pressed beef and oatmeal on view, and above the door the worthy signboard -- T. HOAD, Grocer. "Quality is my Watchword. " Next came John Death, Butcher, with a wide window, over which an awning had been discreetly lowered.