"You got that guy wrong," he would say. "He ain't always been a bum. A guy with half an eye can see that. The way he talks, and the way he walks, and all. There's class to him, I'm telling you. Class, bo."
"He walks like a splay-footed walrus, and he talks like a drunken old hound," I told Sheener. "He's got you buffaloed, that's all."
"Pull in your horns; you're coming to a bridge," Sheener warned me. "Don't be a goat all your life. He's a gent; that's what this guy is."
"Then I'm glad I'm a roughneck," I retorted; and Sheener shook his head.
"That's all right," he exclaimed. "That's all right. He ain't had it easy, you know. Scrubbing spittoons is enough to take the polish off any guy. I'm telling you he's there. Forty ways. You'll see, bo. You'll see."
"I'm waiting," I said.
"Keep right on," Sheener advised me. "Keep right on. The old stuff is there. It'll show. Take it from me."
I laughed at him. "If I get you," I said, "you're looking for something along the line of 'Noblesse Oblige.' What?"
"Cut the comedy," he retorted. "I'm telling you, the old class is there. You can't keep a fast horse in a poor man's stable."
"Blood will tell, eh?"