"'Old 'ard, mates," said a voice, checking his companions from further exploration, "this 'ere is practically hempty."
Cyprian retired behind his paper as, with squelching boots and reeking bundles, they proceeded to instal themselves.
"Bit of orl right, eh?" sighed the first with a creek of content as he settled down to scrutinize the grey streaming pane. "The very rain smells different."
Cyprian had scented an Optimist.
"Hell!" was the reply in startlingly convincing tones, "I'll be floated out o' me blasted boots if I tries to stand up again."
This was obviously the Pessimist.
"All the same, them boots could take the prize at the beauty show if Hathi's 'ere was put alongside 'em for comparison," declared the Optimist, giving a poke at the footgear of Number Three.
His were certainly gaping in all likely and unlikely places, while with the size of them one rightly connected the mode of address. The Hathi smiled absent-mindedly as a man used to exciting comment upon extremities, in more senses than one.
"'E keeps 'is like that a-purpose to show 'is Archiebald socks," commented the Pessimist, disgustedly. "I ain't 'ad so much sock on me nine toes for six months as the Hathi 'as kep' on 'is corns for the 'ole of the last push."
"You ought ter 'a kep' that missin' toe to sell, you ought," chaffed the Optimist. "We could 'ave 'ad a auction in barricks after the last big Bosch fungeral, always supposing we git barricks over our 'eads once more in the sweet By 'n By."