Horace's face remained perfectly impassive, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eye.
“You've been thinking I've been wasting my time beating around down there in the swamp just to look at things and smell of things—which you wouldn't do. You think I'm a kind of impractical dreamer, now, don't you, Horace? I'll warrant you've told your wife just that more than once. Come, now!”
I think I made a rather shrewd hit, for Horace looked uncomfortable and a little foolish.
“Come now, honest!” I laughed and looked him in the eye.
“Waal, now, ye see—”
“Of course you do, and I don't mind it in the least.”
A little dry gleam of humour came in his eye.
“Ain't ye?”
It's a fine thing to have it straight out with a friend.
“No,” I said, “I'm the practical man and you're the dreamer. I've rarely known in all my life, Horace, such a confirmed dreamer as you are, nor a more impractical one.”