The stranger looked at us thoughtfully, benevolently almost. His face was extremely thin and worn, his hands delicate, and his boots too large for him. There was a refinement about his whole personality above the ordinary, and I liked him.
"Have some lunch?" Dimbie said, beginning to unbend. "There isn't any pie left, but there's lots of bread and cheese and some fruit."
"No, thank you. I have some lunch in my pocket, so with your permission I will eat it with you."
He produced an envelope, and taking out a brown lozenge began to suck it. When he had finished this he extracted a second, and then a third. Then from his coat pocket he produced a tin cup, dipped it into a stream which feeds the pool, drank, returned it to his pocket, and leant back in a finished way.
"Is that all you are going to have?" I couldn't resist asking in astonishment.
"Yes," he said. "Being a balloonist, I am obliged to eat sparingly, so take my meat in a concentrated form. I'm one of the thinnest men in Great Britain, and usually wear two coats to hide my lean appearance. Would you like to feel my ribs?"
He asked this simple though somewhat unusual question in exactly the same way as a man might ask you to see his Velasquez.
"No, thank you," we both said together.
"They're worth feeling," he said, a little disappointed.
We assured him of our belief in his veracity.