"What for?" asked the smith, who was always suspicious of information coming from the Colonel.
"Happen it'll be so as you can tell 'em thro' other fowks. It'll be same as a farmer tar-marks his yowes wi' t' letters o' his name."
"Doesta mean that they tar-mark lasses like sheep?" asked William Throup, his mouth agape with wonder.
"Nay, blether-heead," replied Stackhouse, "they'll be like t' specials, and have t' letters on one o' them armlets. But doesta reckon, Colonel, that B.A. stands for t' name o' t' chap that owns t' college?"
"Nay, they tell me that it stands for Bachelor of Arts, choose-what that means."
The smith had listened to the Colonel's explanation of the mysterious letters with growing scepticism. He had scarcely spoken, but an attentive observer could have divined his state of mind by the short, petulant blows he gave to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. Now he stopped in his work, rested his arms on his hammer-shaft, and proceeded, after his fashion, to test the Colonel by questions.
"Doesta reckon, Colonel," he began, "that t' schooil-missus is a he-male or a she-male?"
"Her's a she-male, o' course. What maks thee axe that?"
The smith brushed the query aside as though it had been a cinder, and proceeded with his own cross-examination.
"An' doesta think that far-learnt fowks i' colleges can't tell a he-male thro' a she-male as well as thee?"