“Same un?”
“Yas. Little feller with the twirly mustache. What d’yer guess ’e be, Jack?”
“Looks as though ’e might have come t’ wind the clocks.”
“You bet! Ter do with the babies, I’ve ’eard.”
“Ah, ’ow was that?”
“Murray’s man, ’e told me, t’other evening. This little feller be what they call a ‘Lonnan Special.’ Dunno what edition.”
Three pairs of eyes, one member was absent on duty at the pub, followed Major Murray’s dog-cart with an all-engrossing stare as its red wheels whirled by in the June sunshine.
“Thought Steel ’ad the managin’ of all Murray’s badgers.”
“So ’e ’as. Didn’t yer see ’im come back by the 7.50 t’other day?”
“I did.”