"There might be a certain amount of friskiness in that. But contrariwise, if you waked an' told yourself the fella was runnin' off with it, there wuldn'."
"Shore-living folks takes that risk an' grows accustomed to it. W'y look at the fellow in charge o' this house."
"Where?" asked Mr. Adams nervously.
"The landlord-fellow, I mean, up in the village. His daughter said he went to sleep every afternoon, an' wouldn' be waked. How could a man afford to do that if his money wasn' rollin' up somewhere for him? An' the place fairly lined with barrels o' good liquor."
"Mightn't liquor accumylate in the same way?" asked Mr. Adams, with sudden and lively interest.
"No, you nincom'," began Mr. Jope—when a loud knocking on the outer door interrupted him. "Hallo!" he sank his voice. "Callers already!"
He went to the door, unlocked and opened it. A heavy-shouldered, bull-necked man stood outside in the dusk.
"Good evenin'."
"Evenin'," said the stranger. "My name is Coyne an' you must get out o' this."
"I don't see as it follows," answered Mr. Jope meditatively. "But hadn't you better step inside?"