Every Sunday, Mr. Wells comes to church, but the speaker knows he has arrived before seeing him. A strange mixture of shoe blacking, toilet soap, and camphor balls announces him from across the room. The speaker sees him as a small-town character: whiskers bunched together, glasses parked on top of his head, and odd enough that a child has been told not to call him “Old Man Wells,” though the name seems to fit.
There is no cruelty in that, just the amused, observant eye of a child who notices details adults might ignore. The repeated smells become a reliable signal, so the speaker doesn't have to turn around when they drift in. The mood is warm, cozy, and slightly funny, as if the whole congregation shares the familiar ritual of Mr. Wells making his entrance by scent before sight. That makes the poem a small, affectionate portrait of a person known by smell as much as by sight.