‘And the deacon?’
‘The deacon? ... his nickname’s Cucumber. Every one about here calls him so; but what his real name is—God knows! A foolish creature! A regular ne’er-do-well.’
‘Do they live together?’
‘No; but there—the devil has tied them together, it seems.’
V
We approached the platform. The brigadier cast one glance upon us ... and promptly fixed his eyes on the float; Cucumber jumped up, pulled back his rod, took off his worn-out clerical hat, passed a trembling hand over his rough yellow hair, made a sweeping bow, and gave vent to a feeble little laugh. His bloated face betrayed him an inveterate drunkard; his staring little eyes blinked humbly. He gave his neighbour a poke in the ribs, as though to let him know that they must clear out.... The brigadier began to move on the seat.
‘Sit still, I beg; don’t disturb yourselves,’ I hastened to say. ‘You won’t interfere with us in the least. We’ll take up our position here; sit still.’
Cucumber wrapped his ragged smock round him, twitched his shoulders, his lips, his beard.... Obviously he felt our presence oppressive and he would have been glad to slink away, ... but the brigadier was again lost in the contemplation of his float.... The ‘ne’er-do-weel’ coughed twice, sat down on the very edge of the seat, put his hat on his knees, and, tucking his bare legs up under him, he discreetly dropped in his line.