“Ah. Then there’s another sayin’ which mayhap you’ve heard of too: ‘every man’s got a skeleton in the cupboard.’”
“I’ve heard o’ that likewise,” said Clazie, “but it ain’t true; leastways, I have got no skeleton in none o’ my cupboards, an’, wot’s more, if I ’ad, I’d pitch him overboard.”
“But what if he was too strong for you?” suggested Ned.
“Why, then—I don’t know,” said Clazie, shaking his head.
Before this knotty point could be settled in a satisfactory manner, the comrades were interrupted by the entrance of a man. He was a thick-set, ill-favoured fellow, with garments of a disreputable appearance, and had a slouch that induced honest men to avoid his company. Nevertheless, Ned Crashington gave him a hearty “good afternoon,” and shook hands.
“My brother-in-law, Clazie,” said Ned, turning and introducing him, “Mr Sparks.”
Clazie was about to say he “was ’appy to,” etcetera, but thought better of it, and merely nodded as he turned to the grate and shook the ashes out of his pipe.
“You’ll come and have a cup of tea, Phil? Maggie and I usually have it about this time.”
Phil Sparks said he had no objection to tea, and left the station with Ned, leaving David Clazie shaking his head with a look of profound wisdom.
“You’re a bad lot, you are,” growled David, after the man was gone, “a werry bad lot, indeed!”