They reached the shanty, and there, sure enough, was an old man pottering round with a list to starboard. He was working with a hoe inside a low paling fence round a sort of garden. Steelman and Smith stopped outside the fence.
“Good day, boss!”
“’Day.”
“It’s hot.”
“It’s hot.”
So far it was satisfactory.
He was a little man, with a wiry, red beard. He might have been a Scandinavian.
“You seem to be a bit lame,” said Steelman. “Hurt your foot?”
“Naw,” said the old man. “It’s an old thing.”
“Ah!” said Steelman, “lumbago, I suppose? My father suffered cruel from it for years.”