Though clearly not much more than eighteen years old, Ned Turnharn had the aplomb and assurance of double that age.

Lolling back in the single armchair the room boasted, he more than once stretched out his hand and helped himself from the sherry bottle Mahony had placed on the table.

And the disparity in their ages notwithstanding, there was no trace of deference in his manner.

Or the sole hint of it was: he sometimes smothered a profane word, or apologised, with a winning smile, for an oath that had slipped out unawares.

Mahony could not accustom him self to the foul language that formed the diggers' idiom.