Mr. Kibble, an unctuous broad man of few words and many mouthfuls, said, more briefly than pointedly, raising his ale to his lips: “Same to you.” Mr. Job Potterson, a semi-seafaring man of obliging demeanour, said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Lord bless my soul and body!” cried Mr. Inspector. “Talk of trades, Miss Abbey, and the way they set their marks on men,” (a subject which nobody had approached); “who wouldn’t know your brother to be a Steward! There’s a bright and ready twinkle in his eye, there’s a neatness in his action, there’s a smartness in his figure, there’s an air of reliability about him in case you wanted a basin, which points out the steward! And Mr. Kibble; ain’t he passenger, all over? While there’s that mercantile cut upon him which would make you happy to give him credit for five hundred pound, don’t you see the salt sea shining on him too?”
“ You do, I dare say,” returned Miss Abbey, “but I don’t. And as for stewarding, I think it’s time my brother gave that up, and took his House in hand