"No. I do not want my shoes mended!" roared Winlass, dancing in his impatience. "I want to see Mr. Roberts. Why can't I find him? Why don't he want to be found? Who the hell are you, anyhow?"
"I do be Mr. Roberts's second cousin, sir," said Peter Quentin, whose idea of dialects was hazy but convincing. "I do have bought Mr. Roberts's shop, and I'm here now, and Mr. Roberts ain't coming back, sir, that's who I be."
Mr. Winlass wrenched his features into a jovial beam.
"Oh, you're Mr. Roberts's cousin, are you?" he said, with gigantic affability. "How splendid! And you've bought his beautiful shop. Well, well. Have a cigar, my dear sir, have a cigar."
The young man took the weed, bit off the wrong end, and stuck it into his mouth with the band on — a series of motions which caused Mr. Winlass to shudder to his core. But no one could have deduced that shudder from the smile with which he struck and tendered a match.
"Thank 'ee, sir," said Peter Quentin, "Now, sir, can I mend thy shoes?"
He admitted afterwards to the Saint that the strain of maintaining what he fondly believed to be a suitable patois was making him a trifle light-headed; but Mr. Vernon Winlass was far too preoccupied to notice his aberrations.
"No, my dear sir," said Mr. Winlass, "my shoes don't want mending. But I should like to buy your lovely house."
The young man shook his head.
"I ain't a-wanting to sell 'er, sir."