“Well, we shall be ready for ours about that time too. You might as well serve all three in our sitting-room. And send me up a bottle of gin, half-a-dozen bottles of ginger-beer, a bottle of whisky, a couple of syphons of soda and a corkscrew. Can you manage that?”
“Yes, sir,” said the landlord benevolently. “That I can.”
“Excellent! I suppose it would be too much to ask if you’ve got any ice as well?”
“I have an’ all, sir,” replied the landlord with conscious pride. “I gets it three times a week from Sandsea in this ’ot weather. There’s some come in this morning you can have, and welcome.”
“But this is sheer epicureanism!” Roger cried.
“Yes, sir,” said the landlord. “There’s been two gents in this evening asking for rooms. London gents, by the look of ’em. I told ’em I ’adn’t got any.”
“That’s right, landlord,” Roger said with approval. “Speak the truth and shame the devil, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” said the landlord, and turned away to serve another customer.
“I say,” Anthony asked hopefully as they climbed the stairs a few minutes later, “I say, are we going to make old Moresby tight?”
“Certainly not,” said Roger with dignity. “I’m surprised at you, Anthony. Do I look the sort of person to interfere with the sobriety of the police in the execution of their duty?”