The amateur crime

A. B. Cox
my sister
The young man waved his arms violently. “You’re a cabbage!” he shouted. “A turnip! A vegetable marrow! A—” He paused. “A snail!” he concluded, relinquishing this horticultural catalogue.
Mr. Matthew Priestley blinked at him mildly through his glasses. “Am I, Pat?” he asked, not without surprise.
“Yes, you are.” From his stand upon the hearthrug the young man contemplated his host with extreme severity. “How old are you, Priestley?” he demanded at length.
“Thirty-six,” apologised Mr. Priestley.
“Thirty-six!” repeated the young man with remarkable scorn. “And what do you think people would take you for?”
“Thirty-five?” hazarded Mr. Priestley optimistically.
“Certainly not!” said the young man sharply. “Sixty-five, more like.”
“Oh, no, Pat,” protested Mr. Priestley, pained.
“At least sixty-five,” rejoined the young man firmly. “And no wonder. Do you know what you are, Priestley?”
“Well, yes,” said Mr. Priestley, a little doubtfully, “I’m a cabbage, and a vegetable-marrow, and a snail, and——”