The tramp, examined more closely, became less pyrotechnic. He had a large loose mouth, a confused massive nose, much long fair hair, a broad chin with a promising beard and spots—a lot of spots. His eyes looked out of deep sockets and they were sharp little eyes. He was a lean man. His hands were large and long and they kept on with the feeding of the fire as he sat and talked to Bealby. Once or twice he leant forward and smelt the pot judiciously, but all the time the little eyes watched Bealby very closely.
“Lose yer collar?” said the tramp.
Bealby felt for his collar. “I took it orf,” he said.
“Come far?”
“Over there,” said Bealby.
“Where?”
“Over there.”
“What place?”
“Don’t know the name of it.”
“Then it ain’t your ’ome?”