“There's a man in that shop,” said the Doctor, “who has been in
Fairyland.”
“Nonsense!” I said, and stared back at the shop. It was the usual
village shop, post-office, telegraph wire on its brow, zinc pans and
brushes outside, boots, shirtings, and potted meats in the window. “Tell
me about it,” I said, after a pause.
“_I_ don't know,” said the Doctor. “He's an ordinary sort of
lout--Skelmersdale is his name. But everybody about here believes it
like Bible truth.”