fresh snail; often before Mr. Marrapit had seen it. To lend motive to
his concealment Mr. Fletcher carried always with him this same snail;
needing peace he would draw it from his pocket; plunge to consolation;
upon discovery exhibit it as excuse.

"There is an abominable smell here," said Mr. Marrapit.

Mr. Fletcher inhaled laboriously. "It's not for me to say what it is."

"Adjust that impression. Yours is the duty. You are in charge here.
What is it?"

"It's them damn cats."

"You are insolent, sir. Your insolence increases. It grows
unendurable."

Mr. Fletcher addressed the snail. "He asts a question. I beg not to
answer it. He insists. I tell him. I'm insolent." He sighed; the
tyranny of the world pressed heavily upon this man.

Mr. Marrapit advertised annoyance by clicks of his tongue: "You are
insolent when you swear in my presence. You are insolent when you
impute to my cats a fault that is not theirs."

"I ain't blamin' the cats. It's natural to them. Whenever the wind
sets this way I notice it. It's blamin' me I complain of. I don't draw
the smell. I try to get away from it. It's 'ard--damn 'ard. I'm a
gardener, I am; not a wind-shaft."