“Yes, he’s right enough, but I don’t like a man as puts salt into his own beer and sugar in mine, at first sight too. “’Taint natural or seemly that he should.”
“‘An who be that there,” inquired the woman.
“Ah, no one as you knows,” returned a rustic.
“But who be it, no matter whether it be my bis’ness or yourn?”
“An old man, my dear, as has been pouring melted butter down our backs, and talking to us as if we were all field-marshals or generals.”
“Ye sodgers want to keep all the blarney to your own mouths. But what sort of man be he?”
“Short and dirty, like a winter’s day, with a green shade over his eyes.”
“A green shade!” exclaimed Mr. Wrench, glancing at Joe Doughty. “An old man—eh, my friends?”
“Well, he aint a young one—leastways, to judge from appearance.”
“Appearances are sometimes deceptive,” observed the detective.