There was an awkward silence, broken at last by Mr. Clark smacking his lips.
“Any news since I’ve been away, chaps?” he inquired; “or ’ave you just been sitting round as usual listening to the extra-ordinary adventures what happened to Mr. Ketchmaid whilst a-foller-ing of the sea?”
“Truth is stranger than fiction, Ned,” said Mr. Peter Smith, the tailor, reprovingly.
The shoemaker assented. “But I never thought so till I heard some o’ the things Mr. Ketchmaid ’as been through,” he remarked.
“Well, you know now,” said the landlord, shortly.
“And the truthfullest of your yarns are the most wonderful of the lot, to my mind,” said Mr. Clark.
“What do you mean by the truthfullest?” demanded the landlord, gripping the arms of his chair.
“Why, the strangest,” grinned the shoemaker.
“Ah, he’s been through a lot, Mr. Ketchmaid has,” said the tailor.
“The truthfullest one to my mind,” said the shoemaker, regarding the landlord with spiteful interest, “is that one where Henry Wiggett, the boatswain’s mate, ’ad his leg bit off saving Mr. Ketchmaid from the shark, and ’is shipmate, Sam Jones, the nigger cook, was wounded saving ’im from the South Sea Highlanders.”