“Ten miles. Why, yes. Ain’t that what it is to Saint Mary’s?”
“Saint Mary’s? I didn’t come from no Saint Mary’s. I came from Folly Cove—eighteen mile.”
“Lord, but you don’t tell me! What d’y’ say, now—another little touch? Let me see. Who’s that fellow down there who’s such a great hand to get herring? Let me see now— Johnson? Burke? No, not Burke. Robbins? No, not Robbins, nor Lacey. That’s queer— I know him so well and yet can’t remember his name.”
“Do you mean Rose, John Rose?” suggested the messenger.
“Rose, is it? Is it Rose you’ve come from?”
“Yes, sir— John Rose.”
“That’s it, come to think of it, old John Rose.”
“Why, he ain’t so old.”
“No? Well, it’s so long since I’ve seen him. Have another little touch, and don’t be afraid of it. There’s another jug when that one’s empty. Seen John lately?”
“Seen him? I should say. Last man I spoke to before I left.”