It was Bobball's turn to be puzzled. He gathered that doubt was being cast upon his statements. He licked a grimy stubby black-nailed finger and held his hand up solemnly before him.
"See my finger wet!
See my finger dry!
Gord cut my froat
If I tell a lie,"
quoted he.
"It's your fumb," remarked the Vice, observant and accurate. Bobball had used the term finger in a liberal and comprehensive sense.
"Streuth!" murmured the astonished Bobball. "Ain't you pertickler, Mister Sharp-Heyes? Wot I means fer to say is, that I'm a speakin' the Troof, an' when I do speak the Troof, it 'urts my feelin's, it do, to be doubted. . . . It's caused more'n a lill' onpleasantness between me an' the Colonel, it hev. . . ."
"If you're telling the truth, Bobball, we believe you, of course, said Boodle. "We thought perhaps you were talking Tosh, that's all. Now tell us all about it."
