Lean, strong hands rummaged through Beck’s clothes. As they turned him over, Whiskers saw they belonged to a tall young man with a thin, sad face, a face whose defect was a peculiarly earnest expression.
Don’t look real bright, Whiskers decided. The other man was of bulging oval figure, with a face, Whiskers thought, suggesting a Berkshire pig of political turn of mind. He was growing bald.
“Heist him up, Ed, onto that bench there. Let’s have a look at him.”
When the earnest young man had planted Whiskers as directed, the fat one arranged himself in a rickety armchair, placed his fingertips together, and contemplated the prisoner.
“Gosh, Mister Walker,” said the man called Ed, “he don’t look like such a tough one, does he?”
“He looks more like a man lookin’ out of a hay pile,” Walker
