“Where does that there clay come from?” asked Edwin. For not merely was he honestly struck by a sudden new curiosity, but it was meet for him to behave like a man now, and to ask manly questions.
“Runcorn,” said the Sunday scornfully. “Can’t you see it painted all over the boat?”
“Why do they bring clay all the way from Runcorn?”
“They don’t bring it from Runcorn. They bring it from Cornwall. It comes round by sea—see?” He laughed.
“Who told you?” Edwin roughly demanded.
“Anybody knows that!” said the Sunday grandly, but always maintaining his gay smile.
“Seems devilish funny to me,” Edwin murmured, after reflection, “that they should bring clay all that roundabout way just to make crocks of it here. Why should they choose just this place to make crocks in? I always understood—”
“Oh! Come on!” the Sunday cut him short. “It’s blessed well one o’clock and after!”