"Yes; her yaller head's made all of you fools. I told 'em it was a woman."
"It ain't that," Cullen went on seriously. "It's the likeness, the likeness that ain't there. You understand?"
No one pleaded ignorance, and the smith pulled at his pipe to make sure it had not gone out before resuming.
"Taylor—the old chap, I mean—has sort of ginger hair. His misses—well, she runs mousey. The young 'uns is mostly ginger, and them that ain't is mousey. Tony—you know same as I do, Tony's as black in the hair as a black-fellow, and blacker."
"That's so," Smart observed from the corner post where he was leaning.
"Now, I'll allow there's not much of old Taylor about the look of Tony. There's a bit of the misses—about the eyes somehow, that makes him like her."
"That's so," Smart repeated; and every one else was silent, being interested, for Cullen generally had information, albeit he did sometimes tie it up in words that neither his hearers nor himself could understand.
"Then there's the cause," he exclaimed impressively. "There's the fust cause."
"Where?" Marmot inquired wonderingly. A cause was too great an attraction for him to permit his missing one voluntarily.
"Why, there," Cullen responded. "Tony's not a bit like Taylor; he is a bit like the misses, and he's different to all the rest."