“Well, he’ve a-got a pension. There, don’t ’ee talk to me, Mrs. Cross, my dear. To tell ’ee the truth, I do scarce know what I be doin’. It bain’t what I did look for, d’ye see. The man himself—my daughter’s ’usband—he bain’t the man I did take en for.”
“Ye don’t tell me so!” ejaculated Mrs. Cross, with a dropping jaw. “In what way be he different, Martha?”
“Why,” returned Mrs. Frizzell slowly, “I d’ ’low I did tell ’ee as my daughter’s ’usband were a dark man. Well, that’s one thing as I did make a mistake about—his hair be red, Mrs. Cross.”
“Red!” repeated the other, with a gasp.
“’Ees, red,” reiterated Mrs. Frizzell, assuming a stolid expression. “That be the colour on it, Mrs. Cross.”
“Well, I am surprised. To be sure, the blessed baby’s hair’s red, too—it be easy accounted for now, bain’t it? seein’ as Private Griggs’s hair be red. I wonder how you did come to make sich a mistake, Mrs. Frizzell.”
“I wonder!” said the poor woman. “My mind were fair muddled up, I do think, and I did get a lot o’ queer notions in my head. There’s another thing now; his name bain’t Griggs.”
“Lard! you do give I quite a turn. However did you come to think it were? And what mid his name be, Mrs. Frizzell?”
Mrs. Frizzell opened her mouth, shut it again, and swallowed down what seemed to be a very unpleasant morsel; finally she said, fixing her impenetrable eyes upon her neighbour’s face—
“His name be Barton—Gunner James Barton. ’Ees, that be the name.”