“’E ain’t got no moustache,” said one.
“Cert’n’ly ’e ain’t got no moustache,” said the other.
“Wot,” inquired the first gentleman of leisure, “made you get that silly idea into your ’ead that ’e’s got a moustache?”
“’E’s got a smorl clipped moustache,” said the man in uniform stoutly.
“A smorl clipped moustache?”
“A smorl clipped moustache.”
“You say he’s got a smorl clipped moustache?”
“Ah! A smorl clipped moustache.”
“Well, then,” said the leader of the opposition, with the air of a cross-examining counsel who has dexterously trapped a reluctant witness into a damaging admission, “that’s where you make your ruddy error. Because ’e ain’t got no smorl clipped moustache.”
It seemed to Sam that a little adroit diplomacy at this point would be in his best interests. He had not the pleasure of the duke’s acquaintance and so was not really entitled to speak as an expert, but he decided to support the man in uniform. The good graces of a fellow of his careless opulence were worth seeking. In a soaring moment of optimism it seemed to him that a hard-boiled egg and a cup of coffee were the smallest reward a loyal supporter might expect. He advanced into the light of the naphtha flare and spoke with decision.