William hastily relinquished the plant and glowered at his interlocutor.
“Some folks mayn’t have no work to do,” he remarked darkly; “but other folks ’ave.”
“Meaning yourself, I take it?” Roger said approvingly. “That’s right. Work away. Nothing like it, is there? Keeps you cheerful and bright and contented. Great thing, work, I agree with you.”
A flicker of interest passed across William’s countenance. “What did that there Mr. Stanworth want to shoot hisself for, eh?” he demanded suddenly.
“I don’t know, to tell you the truth,” said Roger, somewhat taken aback at the unexpectedness of this query. “Why, have you got any ideas about it?”
“I don’t ’old with it meself,” said William primly. “Not with sooeycide.”
“You’re absolutely right, William,” Roger replied warmly. “If more people were like you, there’d be—there’d be less suicides, undoubtedly. It’s an untidy habit, to say the least.”
“It ain’t acting right,” William pursued firmly. “That’s what it ain’t.”
“You put it in a nutshell, William; it isn’t. In fact, it’s acting all wrong. By the way, William, somebody or other was telling me that a stranger had been seen about the grounds during the last day or two. You noticed him by any chance?”
“Stranger? What sort of a stranger?”