“No, but I’m not a native either.”
“Ah, pity! What’s your monarch—if you ain’t this cove?” enquired the man, with a jerk of his thumb up at the fascia-board.
“Jack Staple. What’s yours?”
“Stogumber—Gabriel Stogumber.” He glanced round, as Ben came out of the toll-house, and said: “Hallo! Didn’t I see you at the Blue Boar this morning? What are you a-doing of here?”
“I lives here!” said Ben indignantly.
“Oh, you lives here! Beg parding, I’m sure, Master Booberkin!”
“He’s Brean’s son,” interposed John. “I’m his cousin.”
“Oh, that’s how it is, is it?” said Mr. Stogumber, looking from one to the other. “To be sure, I did think you was too young to be his pa, and yet again too old to be his brother. How do ye like it in these parts? You seen a bit of service, I dessay?”
“Ay, several years.”
“I should think it must seem a dull sort of a place,” observed Mr. Stogumber. “I’m from Lunnon meself, and it looks to me like nothing ever happens here, nor ever will. I been setting on this here seat close on half an hour, and I seen one dung-cart go through the pike. Meself, I like a bit o’ bustle—mail-coaches, and stages, and such. It’s all according to taste, o’ course. By the way they all stare at me in the village, back yonder, it’s easy to guess you don’t see a stranger here above once in ten years.”