“He’s a ugly bloke with a mug like yourn, and a ’orseshoe pin in ’is weskit.”
“Yes? And what colour is his hair?”
“Carrots!”
That was quite enough. This unromantic portrait corresponded sufficiently nearly with the description already given.
“Now,” said Mr Barnacle, “will you tell us when you last blacked his boots?”
“A Toosdy.”
“Do you remember whether he was alone?”
“Ain’t you arstin’ me questions, though!” exclaimed Billy. “Of course he ’ad a bloke along of him, and, says he, ‘That there parson’s son,’ says he, ‘is a cuttin’ it fat?’ says he. ‘He do owe me a fifteen pun,’ says ’e, ‘and ef ’e don’t hand it over sharp,’ says he, ‘I’ll wake ’im up!’ And then—”
“Yes,” said Mr Barnacle; “that’s enough, my man, thank you.”
When Billy had gone, Mr Merrett turned to me and said, “Go to your work, Batchelor, and tell Doubleday to send Hawkesbury here.”