“Ay, there,” said another, without removing his eyes from Stephen’s face, “I should ha’ knowed en anywhere. ’Tis his father’s nose to a T.”
“It has been often remarked,” said Stephen modestly.
“And he’s certainly taller,” said Martin, letting his glance run over Stephen’s form from bottom to top.
“I was thinking ’a was exactly the same height,” Worm replied.
“Bless thy soul, that’s because he’s bigger round likewise.” And the united eyes all moved to Stephen’s waist.
“I be a poor wambling man, but I can make allowances,” said William Worm. “Ah, sure, and how he came as a stranger and pilgrim to Parson Swancourt’s that time, not a soul knowing en after so many years! Ay, life’s a strange picter, Stephen: but I suppose I must say Sir to ye?”
“Oh, it is not necessary at present,” Stephen replied, though mentally resolving to avoid the vicinity of that familiar friend as soon as he had made pretensions to the hand of Elfride.
“Ah, well,” said Worm musingly, “some would have looked for no less than a Sir. There’s a sight of difference in people.”
“And in pigs likewise,” observed John Smith, looking at the halved carcass of his own.
Robert Lickpan, the pig-killer, here seemed called upon to enter the lists of conversation.