"Come, don't be stand-offish, Mus' Furlonger," said the shepherd of Little Cow Farm, who, meeting him outside the Bells at Lingfield, had suggested a drink.
"No, you're a better man than me now—aren't you?" said Nigel, showing his teeth.
"I wurn't hinting such, Mus' Furlonger—only t'other chaps in there do want to hear about the prison."
"Why?"
"Oh, it's always interesting to hear about prison—specially from chaps wot has bin there. We git a lot about 'em in Lloyd's and The People, but there's nothing like a fust-hand story—surelye!"
Nigel laughed crudely.
"And it's a treat to meet a real convict—none of your petty larceny and misdemeanour fellers...."
"Well, here's greatness thrust upon me," said Furlonger, and swaggered into the bar.
The fuggy atmosphere affected him in much the same way as the smell of ether and dressings affects a man entering a hospital—the spirit of the place, assisted by crude outward manifestations, cowed him and made him its slave.