It was evident to any careful observer that he had not confined his
attentions to the exterior of the White Lion.
William, at whose heels trotted his beloved mongrel (rightly named
Jumble), was passing him with a casual glance, when something
attracted his attention. He stopped and looked back, then, turning
round, stood in front of the tall, untidy figure, gazing up at him
with frank and unabashed curiosity.
"Who cut 'em off?" he said at last in an awed whisper.
The figure raised his hands and stroked the long hair down the side of
his face.
"Now yer arskin'," he said with a grin.
"Well, who _did_?" persisted William.
"That 'ud be tellin'," answered his new friend, moving unsteadily
from one foot to the other. "See?"
"You got 'em cut off in the war," said William firmly.
"I didn't. I bin in the wor orl right. Stroike me pink, I bin in the
wor and _that's_ the truth. But I didn't get 'em cut orf in the wor.
Well, I'll stop kiddin' yer. I'll tell yer strite. I never 'ad none.
_Nar!_"
William stood on tiptoe to peer under the untidy hair at the small
apertures that in his strange new friend took the place of ears.
Admiration shone in William's eyes.
"Was you _born_ without 'em?" he said enviously.
His friend nodded.
"Nar don't yer go torkin' about it," he went on modestly, though
seeming to bask in the sun of William's evident awe and respect. "I
don't want all folks knowin' 'bout it.
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