He had Guernsey merchant written all over him."
"Tattooed?" asked Mr. Pennefather, without looking up from the ledger
in which he had buried himself anew. "I had no idea they went to
such lengths . . . in Guernsey . . . and fourteen is twenty-seven,
and five is thirty-two, and thirty-two is two-and-eight. . . . I beg
your pardon? You identified him, then?"
Mr. Smellie frowned. "I shall send up a private note to the
Barracks; and meanwhile, I advise you to keep an eye lifting."
"And ten is three-and-six. . . . An eye lifting, certainly," assented
Mr. Pennefather, without, however, immediately acting on this advice.
"There's that fellow Hymen, now, next door. He's not altogether the
ass he looks, or my name's not Smellie."
"But it is, surely?" Mr. Pennefather looked up in innocent surprise.
"And you really think it justifies calling in the Dragoons?"
"On the face of it, no; I've no evidence. And yet, I repeat, there's
some mischief afoot. This new game of Hymen's, for instance--Before
coming down to these parts"--Mr. Smellie threw a fine condescension
into this phrase--"I should have thought it impossible that anyone in
the shape of a man, let alone of a Major of Artillery, could solemnly
propose to test a neighbouring corps by a night attack, and then as
solemnly give warning on what night he meant to deliver it."
Mr. Pennefather took off his spectacles and polished them with his
silk handkerchief.
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