The figure was hazy and indistinct by reason of the heavy wreaths of tobacco-smoke wherewith it was enveloped.
“Yis, sur,” replied the figure; “he lives in the door it the other ind o’ the passage. It’s not over-light here, sur; mind yer feet as ye go, an’ pay attintion to your head, for what betune holes in the floor an’ beams in the ceilin’, tall gintlemen like you, sur, come to grief sometimes.”
Thanking the figure for its civility, Mr Hazlit knocked at the door indicated, but there was no response.
“Sure it’s out they are!” cried the figure from the other end of the passage. “Joe Baldwin’s layin’ a charge under the wreck off the jetty to-day—no doubt that’s what’s kep’ ’im, and it’s washin’-day with Mrs Joe, I belave; but I’m his pardner, sur, an’ if ye’ll step this way, Mrs Machowl’ll be only too glad to see ye, sur, an’ I can take yer orders.”
Not a little amused by this free-and-easy invitation, Mr Hazlit entered a small apartment, which surprised him by its clean and tidy appearance. A pretty little Irishwoman, with a pert little turned-up nose, auburn hair so luxuriant that it could not be kept in order, and a set of teeth that glistened in their purity, invited him to sit down, and wiped a chair with her apron for his accommodation.
“You’ve got a nice little place here,” remarked the visitor, looking round him.
“Troth, sur, ye wouldn’t have said that if you’d seen it whin we first came to it. Of all the dirty places I iver saw! I belave an Irish pig would have scunnered at it, an’ held his nose till he got out. It’s very well for England, but we was used to cleaner places in the owld country. Hows’iver we’ve got it made respictable now, and we’re not hard to plaze.”
This was a crushing reply. It upset Mr Hazlit’s preconceived ideas regarding the two countries so completely that he was perplexed. Not being a man of rapid thought he changed the subject:—
“You are a diver, you say?”
“I am, sur.”