Before I could answer this pointed question, old Joel Amos hobbled up, who paused on the threshold to address some one over his shoulder.
"Come on, James, 'ere 'e be—come for'ard, James, like a man."
Thus adjured, another individual appeared: a somewhat flaccid-looking individual, with colorless hair and eyes, one who seemed to exhale an air of apology, as it were, from the hobnailed boot upon the floor to the grimy forefinger that touched the strawlike hair in salutation.
"Marnin', Peter!" said Old Amos, "this yere is Dutton."
"How do you do?" said I, acknowledging the introduction, "and what can I do for Mr. Dutton?" The latter, instead of replying, took out a vivid belcher handkerchief, and apologetically mopped his face.
"Speak up, James Dutton," said Old Amos.
"Lord!" exclaimed Dutton, "Lord! I du be that 'ot!—you speak for I,
Amos, du."
"Well," began Old Amos, not ill-pleased, "this 'ere Dutton wants to ax 'ee a question, 'e du, Peter."
"I shall be glad to answer it, if I can," I returned.
"You 'ear that?—well, ax your question, James Dutton," commanded the old man.