All newcomers were formally presented to Daddy Thunder, and as Tom pushed Wynyard in his direction he said—
“This be the Parrett ladies’ new man, daddy.” To Owen, “Daddy, here, he knows the place well, and can tell ye all about it, better nor any, though he wasn’t Ottinge born.”
Daddy slowly removed his long clay pipe, and inspected the stranger with a pair of shrewd little grey eyes. He had rosy cheeks, a benevolent, even sweet expression, and looked fifteen years younger than his age.
“Ye come fra’ London?” he began agreeably.
“Yes, sir, three days ago. It’s a good long journey.”
“Ay, mister,” nodding his white head expressively. “Ye don’t belong to us. Yer speech—like the Bible chap—bewrayeth ye—y’re no working man!”
“I am, indeed,” rejoined Wynyard quickly, “and working for my bread the same as the rest of the company; it’s all I have to look to—my two hands.”
“Nay, is that so?” and he glanced at him incredulously. “Well, I’ve bin here a matter o’ twenty year, and I never see one o’ your make a-comin’ in and settin’ in the Drum. There’s ’im,” and he indicated the bent figure in the corner, whose pipe was in his hand, his eyes riveted on the stranger with a look of startled inquiry.
“That’s the Captain, but ’e’s no account. ’E comes in and ’e sits and maybe listens; ’e never speaks. They do say ’e ’ad a soort o’ stroke in India, and ’is brain ’as melted like, but ’e is ’armless enough—anyhow, ’is lady won’t put ’im away.”
“I suppose you’ve lived here a long time?” said Wynyard, drawing forward a chair, and placing it so as to sit with his back to the said Captain, whose stare was disagreeably steady.