Boylan disdained answer. He was strapping a pigskin legging over a bulging calf, always a severe strain. He looked up presently, reached across and touched his forefinger to Peter's chin then to his own, which bristled black and gray.
“Young man, you've got a secret,” he remarked darkly.
Peter smiled. He kept his razors in the same case as his tooth-brush, and the case had not been mislaid so far. He could shave in the dark.
“You're either not of age, or your face is sterile,” said Boylan.
“The floor of this fish shop isn't,” said Peter.
“I've been with you the last forty-eight hours straight. No sign of life in that time.”
“You went out looking for fresh meat at sundown. You were gone—-”
“I was gone just five minutes, because the train wasn't up. You had tea on when I came back.”
“There was a bit too much hot water.”
“Peter, that will do once more, but I've got a suspicion. No man living can shave in the saddle—so you won't be able to spring that one. Besides, you are willing to discuss the matter.”