John Pringle coughed, scratched his chin, and coughed again.
"What is it, John?" I inquired.
"Why, then, you couldn't 'appen to notice—'im wearin' 'is 'at—you couldn't 'appen to notice if 'e 'ad ever a pair o' 'orns, Peter?"
"Horns!" I exclaimed.
"Or a—tail, Peter?"
"Or even a—'oof, now?" suggested Job.
"Come," said I, looking from one to the other, "what might you be driving at?"
"Why, ye see, Peter," answered John, coughing again, and scratching his chin harder than ever, "ye see, Peter, it aren't nat'ral for a 'uman bein' to go a-vanishin' away like this 'ere—if 'twere a man as you was a-talkin' to—"
"Which I doubts!" muttered Job.
"If 'twere a man, Peter, then I axes you—where is that man?"