“Yes?” says Keepimstraight.
Bumpkin stares.
“Yes, go on,” says the clerk.
“Go on,” says the crier; “go on,” say half-a-dozen voices all round.
“Can’t you go on?” says the clerk.
“Tell your story,” says his Lordship, putting his arms on the elbows of the huge chair. “Tell it in your own way, my man.”
“I wur gwine down thic place when—” “my man” began.
“What time was this?” asks the clerk.
“Arf arter four, as near as I can tell.”
“How do you know?” asks the clerk.