"Wall, sir, I doan't think ur wus yaller, nuther. No, sir, not quite yaller; I think it was moore of a blue like."
"A blue smell. We all know a blue smell when we see it."
Of course, I need not say the laughter was going on in peals, much to Platt's delight. Tindal was simply in an ecstasy, but did all he could to suppress his enjoyment of the scene.
Then Platt resumed,—
"You think it was more of a blue smell like? Now, let me ask you, there are many kinds of blue smells, from the smell of a Blue Peter, which is salt, to that of the sky, which depends upon the weather. Was it dark, or—"
"A kind of sky-blue, sir."
"More like your scarf?"
Up went Hodge's hand to see if he could feel the colour.
"Yes," said he, "that's more like—"
"Zummut like your scarf?"