"Well Sir," Mr. Lopside arrives and observes after a few moments spent in careful consideration of the subject from various points of view, "of course you feel the cold because there is five-and-twenty degrees of frost just outside."
I admit that Mr. Lopside's opinion is reasonable; and call his attention to the fact that a newspaper which is lying on the floor some five yards from a closed door is violently agitated.
"I see Sir," says he promptly. "If you will wait a moment I will tell you more about it."
He takes off his coat, throws down a bag of tools (his chronic companion), and lies flat on the floor. Then he places his right ear to the ground and listens intently, pointing the while to the newspaper that has now ceased to suffer from agitation.
"There you are, Sir!" he exclaims triumphantly. "There's a draught there. I could feel it distinctly."
He rises from the ground, reassumes his overcoat, and once more possesses himself of his bag of useful instruments.
"Well, what shall I do?" I ask.
"Well, you see Sir, it's not for the likes of me to advise gentry folk like you. I wouldn't think of presuming upon such a liberty."
"Not at all, Mr. Lopside," I explain with some anxiety.
"Then Sir—mind you, if it's not taking too much of a liberty—I would, having draughts, get rid of them. And you have draughts about, now haven't you?"