"Very fine summer weather, sir," said Bozzle.
"Very fine," said the Colonel, burying himself behind a newspaper.
"They is getting up their wheat nicely in these parts, sir."
The answer to this was no more than a grunt. But Bozzle was not offended. Not to be offended is the special duty of all policemen, in and out of office; and the journey from Exeter to London was long, and was all before him.
"A very nice little secluded village is Nuncombe Putney," said Bozzle, as the train was leaving the Salisbury Station.
At Salisbury two ladies had left the carriage, no one else had got in, and Bozzle was alone with the Colonel.
"I dare say," said the Colonel, who by this time had relinquished his shield, and who had begun to compose himself for sleep, or to pretend to compose himself, as soon as he heard Bozzle's voice. He had been looking at Bozzle, and though he had not discovered the man's trade, had told himself that his companion was a thing of dangers,—a thing to be avoided, by one engaged, as had been he himself, on a special and secret mission.
"Saw you there,—calling at the Clock House," said Bozzle.
"Very likely," said the Colonel, throwing his head well back into the corner, shutting his eyes, and uttering a slight preliminary snore.
"Very nice family of ladies at the Clock House," said Bozzle. The Colonel answered him by a more developed snore. "Particularly Mrs. T——" said Bozzle.