"Ah think not, Steg," said the brewer quickly, rejecting the probability without consideration, like the blind man's box of matches pushed under his nose in Hunmouth.
"Ah think not," the brewer repeated. "Lunnon 's a long way off 'n Clift Yend."
"Ay, but ah 'm none so sure, ah tell ye," Steg urged, real conviction growing in him out of contradiction, as is the way of all flesh. "'E 's lived a deal i' furrin parts, onny'ow," he said craftily, making a counter demonstration to relieve pressure on the main issue, and retiring under its cover from the assailed position.
"Which on 'em?" inquired the brewer, with disconcerting directness.
"T' most part on 'em, ah think," Steg replied, boldly.
"France, 'as 'e?" asked the brewer, testing this broad statement of fact by the application of specifics.
"Ay," said Steg, with a big bold affirmative like the head of a tadpole, thinning out all suddenly into a faint wriggling tail of protective caution—"ah think so."
"Jarmany?" asked the brewer.
"Ay," said Steg again, "... ah think so."
"Roo-shah?" the brewer went on judicially, suddenly of a mind to turn this interrogation into a geographical display, but with a keen eye for the limits of his territory.