“He's our Guardy. Isn't he a chook?”
That rumbling whisper like “Scratch a Poll, Poll!” recurring to Bob Pillin, he said with reservation:
“You know him better than I do.” “Oh! Aren't you his grandson, or something?”
Bob Pillin did not cross himself.
“Lord! No! My dad's an old friend of his; that's all.”
“Is your dad like him?”
“Not much.”
“What a pity! It would have been lovely if they'd been Tweedles.”
Bob Pillin thought: 'This bit is something new. I wonder what her Christian name is.' And he said:
“What did your godfather and godmothers in your baptism—-?”