The man who had dropped the hint about the tickets, descending from his perch upon the platform, came sauntering in my direction. As he moved he placed his hand against his forehead.
"Barmy on the crumpet," he observed.
What he meant I had not a notion. It moved a third woman, whose girth precluded any notion of her being on the verge of famine, to exclaim,--
"Poor dear!"
The potato washer began to put me through an examination.
"What's your name?"
"Molly Boyes."
"Where d'ye live?"
"West Marden."
"You ain't come all the way from West Marden here?"