"Can't do it, old man; mean well, no doubt, but can't do it. One man lead a horse to the water—twenty can't bail him out. Go 'way and don't fuss."
I glanced at the sergeant. "You'll let me deal with him as I like?" I asked.
He grinned. "Bless you, sir, we're used to it. I ain't listening."
"Thank you." I turned to the prisoner. "Now, then, you drunken little hog, stand up and walk," said I, taking him by the ear and keeping my left ready.
I suppose that the drink suddenly left him weak, for he stood up at once.
"There's some ho—horrible mistake," he began to whimper. "But if the worst comes to the worst, you'll adopt me, won't you?"
Still holding him by the ear, I led him forth and flung him into the cab, in a corner of which the trembling Horrex had already huddled himself. He fell, indeed, across Horrex's knees, and at once screamed aloud.
"Softly, softly, Master 'Erbert," whispered the poor man soothingly. "It's only poor old Horrex, that you've known since a boy."
"Horrex?" Master Herbert straightened himself up. "Do I understand you to say, sir, that your name is Horrex? Then allow me to tell you, Horrex, that you are no gentleman. You hear?" He spoke with anxious lucidity, leaning forward and tapping the butler on the knee. "No gentleman."
"No, sir," assented Horrex.