“Where did you get that eye?”
“Fell over pitchfork, sir, and hit the side of a stall.”
“Tenney, you?”
“No, sir.” He who answered was a tired-looking man, whose eyelids were most of the time let down. The two words, his total contribution to the inquiry, were drawn out to the length of polysyllables.
“Morgan, you’re a Welshman from around this district. You must have a lot of these old wives’ tales simmering inside that head of yours.”
The man, a swart, square-bearded little man, speaking with the sing-song of local accent, answered that he had heard tell of Parson Lolly “out of the cradle.”
“I’ve no doubt—ignorant folly,” commented Pendleton. “Well, what is all this nonsense?”
“You mean about Parson Lolly, sir?”
“Yes, what about him?”
“Well, sir, they do say he be the biggest of the farises and he be out of sight of any man for age.”