“How?”
“A bad white, Sir, and pock-marked something; a broad face and flat, and a very little bit of a nose; his eyes almost shut, and a sort of smile about his mouth, and stingy bits of red whiskers, in a curl, down each cheek.”
“How old?”
“He might be nigh fifty, Sir.”
“Ha, ha! very good. How was he dressed?”
“Black frock coat, Sir, a good deal worn; an old flowered satin waistcoat, worn and dirty, Sir; and a pair of raither dirty tweed trousers. Nothing fitted him, and his hat was brown and greasy, begging your parding, Sir; and he had a stick in his hand, and cotton gloves—a-trying to look genteel.”
“And he asked for the right boot?” asked Mr. Longcluse.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You are quite sure of that? Did he take the boot without looking at it, or did he examine it before he took it away?”
“He looked at it sharp enough, Sir, and turned up the sole, and he said ‘It's all right,’ and he went away, taking it along with him.”