He arose stiffly and walked around behind the counter.
“Give me the key, Smythe,” he demanded, holding out his hand.
The Colonel took the key and unlocked a small oak cupboard, extracting from it a bottle of red liquor.
“I’m afraid if Watson persists in drinking I’ll have to find a new agent,” he said, walking to the door and throwing the bottle across the street.
“Seems he can’t resist the drink, Colonel,” stammered the groceryman.
His long face had turned to a yellow-white, though, it was hid by the advancing night-shadows from the black orbs of the ponderous man before him.
“I’ll go and have you a meal prepared. Make yourself comfortable, Colonel Hallibut.”
Not until the door of the inner room closed upon him did the soul of Smythe vent itself in whispered imprecations. He clenched his claw-like fists and shook them fiercely. He let forth a tirade of murmured oaths that would have made a Newfoundland fisherman gasp in wonder. Finally, he turned and, prying through the gloom, sought out the recumbent figure of his colored man-of-all-work, who was peacefully sleeping on a cot of willow-boughs. Smythe crept forward and bent above the sleeper. A prolonged snore met him. He reached forward and, feeling down the wide bridge of the negro’s nose until he got the desired hold, he deliberately gave that member such a violent twist that Sam came out of Magnolialand to this trying sphere with a suppressed snort.
“Yes, massar,” he cried, struggling up.
“Light the candles and put some bacon to fry,” commanded Smythe. “Colonel Hallibut is here.”