in some family feud with the Warrens, or was their attitude typical of what he might expect from Little Bilstead society? In any case, he told himself as he slid from the gate, the true humour of the situation would develop later.
He had been walking for about five minutes enjoying the warmth of the sunshine, when, a few yards ahead of him there turned out from a heavily-rutted lane a man in labourer's corduroys carrying a pick and a spade over his shoulder. At the sight of Smith his jaw dropped, and he stared to the full extent of his eyes.
"Well, I'll be grimed!" he stuttered at length, swinging the pick and spade from his shoulder and resting them on the roadway. "If it aren't Mist' Alfred," and he broke into an evil ripple of mirthless chuckles. "Mist' Alfred!" he repeated. "Well, I'll be grimed."
Incredibly dirty, bent and misshapen, he seemed the embodiment of evil as he stood, his slobbering lips set in a sinister leer, his shifty little eyes fixed on Smith, who had involuntarily come to a standstill.
"You 'ave got a nerve, mister," he said at length, gazing up at Smith. "You 'ave got a nerve," he repeated, as if finding satisfaction in the words.
"You think so?" remarked Smith easily, as he looked down at the sinister figure before him.
The man's stoop threw his head forward and, as he gazed up at Smith, he looked strangely like a toad.
"I do," was the response, uttered with an air of conviction; "but there, you always was a rum 'un"; and there was grudging admiration in the man's tone.
"So you think I am Mr. Warren?" enquired Smith calmly.
"Think!" repeated the man. "I 'aven't no need to
