“Twenty year, more or less. I am a south country man, and my daughter she married and settled ’ere, and ’er ’usband died; an’ as there was only the two on us, I come along to keep ’er company, and to die ’ere, since I was gettin’ pretty old, being over seventy; but, Lor’ bless ye! that’s twenty-two year ago, and ’ere I be still gettin’ about, and doin’ a bit o’ gardenin’. The air is grand—nothing ails me but gout,” holding out a crippled hand. “This isn’t the place to die in—it’s the place to live in. It keeps ye alive. Why, I’m ninety-three. Oh, it’s what ye may call a terrible lively place.”
This was not his listener’s opinion, who would have instituted instead the word “deadly.”
“You must have seen a great deal in ninety-three years,” said Wynyard, lighting his pipe.
“Lor’ bless ye, yes; and I’ve a wunnerful memory.”
“Do you remember the days of Napoleon?”
“What—old Bony! Nay,” a little offended, “I’m not as old as that; but I do mind a talk o’ ’is funeral in France.”
“I beg your pardon, I’m an awful duffer at dates. You remember Wellington?”
“Oh ay, ’e was only the other day, so to speak.”
“And what else do you remember?”
“Well, as a lad, I remember I was terrible afeerd o’ the press gang.”