Danby seized the brawny and surprised hand and wrung it warmly. “God bless you, dear old Hodge!” he said hoarsely. “God bless you!” Then he laughed merrily. “You make me feel like an attack of bronchitis.”
The feeble joke went home. Pippard roared. “There you goes agin,” he said. “What are yer, mister? A hartist?”
“An artist? Oh, dear no. Oh, God bless me, no! I’m an artiste.”
“What’s the difference, any’ow?”
If the little man had asked for his cue, he could not have got it more readily. “An artist earns his bread-and-butter by putting paint on canvas, and an artiste gets an occasional dish of tripe and onions by putting paint on his face.”
“Ah reckon as ’ow you’re an artiste, mister, although Ah can’t see no paint on yer face.”
“I washed over twelve months ago,” said Danby sadly. “Oh, by the way, am I trespassing?”
“Well, it all depends on wot ye’re a-goin’ ter do.”
“Eat, old boy. If you’ve no objection I’m going to spread out my hors d’œuvres and pâté de foie gras, and lunch al-fresco.”
“Don’t onderstand a blame wurd,” said Pippard, grinning.