“If I may hinterpose,” came in Blenkinson again, “I might remind you, sir, that most of us are not of Welsh extraction. These foolish stories don’t ’ave much credit with us from London and other parts, you may be sure.”
This speech was approved by vigorous nods on the part of several, while three or four, the darker-faced and smaller ones, glowered for a bit, particularly two of the women, strikingly handsome and strikingly alike. Old Finlay the gardener smiled with sublime sarcasm, such as to elicit a question from Pendleton.
“I was thinkin’ as how they was all flummoxed and flabbergasted last night. It tickle me—that it do. They fules!” The ancient slapped his knee and burst into a silent guffaw. “Why, they tales—”
“One moment, Finlay,” said Pendleton; “we must go through this in an orderly way.”
“Sir,” Blenkinson cautioned.
“Oh, yes, yes, of course—what you say is very true—forgotten about it.” Pendleton scratched his head, saw light suddenly. “Why, of course, er—most of you are English, not British—”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Not Welsh—same thing. I suppose, then—there won’t be much—well, let’s see how much we do know. I’ll take you in turn.”
He spoke to the men standing by the screen. “Wheeler, Tenney, Morgan—any of you had any, er, experiences in the stables? Wheeler?”
“No, sir,” answered a young, rubicund fellow with a swollen and discoloured cheek and blue-ringed eye. (He drove the Pendleton car.) “Nothing but when we were called out last night.”