“Mortimer was light, and took on my work. He's a good sort.”
“Does he bet?”
The boy laughed. “Mortimer bet? That's rich. We call him 'Old Solemnity' in the bank; but he doesn't mean any harm by it—he just can't help it, that's all. If he had a stiff ruff about his neck, you could pose him for a picture of one of those old Dutch burgomasters.”
“He's doing your work, and you're making fun of him, boy.”
“You can't make fun of him, at him, or with him; he's a grave digger; but you can trust him.”
“That's better.”
“If I'd killed a man and needed a friend to help me out, I'd go straight to Mortimer; he's got that kind of eyes. Do you know why he's doing my work to-day?”
“Because you're away, I suppose.”
“Because you recited that doggerel about The Run of Crusader.”
“Alan! I've never spoken to Mr. Mortimer.”