The barman
leaned across the counter.
"Guvnor," he whispered hoarsely, "I don't know what the game is,
but I've given you the office. Billy won't stand no truck from
any one. He's a holy terror."
Sir Timothy nodded.
"I quite understand," he said.
There was a moment's ominous silence. The barman withdrew to the
further end of his domain and busied himself cleaning some
glasses. Suddenly the door was swung open. A man entered whose
appearance alone was calculated to inspire a certain amount of
fear. He was tall, but his height escaped notice by reason of
the extraordinary breadth of his shoulders. He had a coarse and
vicious face, a crop of red hair, and an unshaven growth of the
same upon his face. He wore what appeared to be the popular
dress in the neighbourhood--a pair of trousers suspended by a
belt, and a dirty flannel shirt. His hands and even his chest,
where the shirt fell away, were discoloured by yellow stains. He
looked around the room at first with an air of disappointment.
Then he caught sight of Sir Timothy standing at the counter, and
he brightened up.
"Where's all the crowd, Tom?" he asked the barman.
"Scared of you, I reckon," was the brief reply. "There was
plenty here a few minutes ago."
"Scared of me, eh?" the other repeated, staring hard at Sir
Timothy.
Pages:
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227