"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the fussy gentleman in an altered tone, "but you are armed, of course?"
"Armed?" repeated Mottle-face, more owl-like of eye than ever, "armed, sir, Lord love me yes! my guard carries a brace o' barkers in the boot."
"I'm glad of that," said the fussy gentleman, "very!"
"Though," pursued Mottle-face, rolling his head heavily, "Joe ain't 'zactly what you might call a dead shot, nor yet a ex-pert, bein' blind in 'is off blinker, d'ye see."
"Eh—blind, d'ye say—blind?" exclaimed the fussy gentleman.
"Only in 'is off eye," nodded Mottle-face, reassuringly, "t'other 'un's as good as yours or mine, ven 'e ain't got a cold in it."
"But this—this is an outrage!" spluttered the fussy gentleman, "a guard blind in one eye! Scandalous! I shall write to the papers of this. But you—surely you carry a weapon too?"
"A vepping? Ay, to be sure, sir, I've got a blunder-bush, under this 'ere werry seat, loaded up to the muzzle wi' slugs too,—though it von't go off."
"Won't—eh, what? Won't go off?"
"Not on no account, sir, vich ain't to be 'spected of it, seeing as it ain't got no trigger."