“Good morning, sir,” said he.
“Good morning,” said Lord Peter. “A beautiful day.”
“That it be, sir, that it be,” said the old man, heartily. “When I sees a beautiful May day like this, I pray the Lord He’ll spare me to live in this wonderful world of His a few years longer. I do indeed.”
“You look uncommonly fit,” said his lordship, “I should think there was every chance of it.”
“I’m still very hearty, sir, thank you, though I am eighty-seven next Michaelmas.”
Lord Peter expressed a proper astonishment.
“Yes, sir, eighty-seven, and if it wasn’t for the rheumatics I’d have nothin’ to complain on. I’m stronger maybe than what I look. I knows I’m a bit bent, sir, but that’s the ’osses, sir, more than age. Regular brought up with ’osses I’ve been all my life. Worked with ’em, slept with ’em—lived in a stable, you might say, sir.”
“You couldn’t have better company,” said Lord Peter.
“That’s right, sir, you couldn’t. My wife always used to say she was jealous of the ’osses. Said I preferred their conversation to hers. Well, maybe she was right, sir. A ’oss never talks no foolishness, I says to her, and that’s more than you can always say of women, ain’t it, sir?”
“It is indeed,” said Wimsey. “What are you going to have?”