“Oh, it’s only a shower,” said Josephs, looking up cheerfully at the unbroken curtain of cloud. “It will clear up presently.”
“It ain’t for a common man to set up his opinion again’ a gentleman wot have profesh’nal knowledge of the heavens, as one may say,” said the man, “but I would ‘umbly offer to bet my umbrellar to his wideawake that it don’t cease raining this side of seven o’clock.”
“That man lives here,” whispered Miss Wilson, “and I suppose he wants to get rid of us.”
“H’m!” said Fairholme. Then, turning to the strange laborer with the air of a person not to be trifled with, he raised his voice, and said: “You live here, do you, my man?”
“I do, sir, by your good leave, if I may make so bold.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jeff Smilash, sir, at your service.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Brixtonbury, sir.”
“Brixtonbury! Where’s that?”