"Just the same," says Bogle.
"Same time?"
"Yes."
"Did he always put his hand inside his sleeve to rub?"
"I don't know."
"But I want to know."
"If your shirt was unbuttoned, Mr. Hawkins, and you was rubbin' your arm, you would draw up your sleeve—"
"Never mind what I should do; I want to know what you saw."
"The same as before," answers Bogle angrily.
"A flea?"