“But you’ll do it?”
“Well, yes, then.”
Mr. Plumley showed him out, returned to the parlour, finished his whisky and water, and called in the dealer from some hidden corner of the hall where he had lain concealed. He had braced his nerves in the interval. His attitude all at once was scowling and truculent—meet for the reception of the shabby loafer who now presented himself.
“What are you grinning at, sir?” he roared. “This ain’t the face to bring to business.”
“O! isn’t it?” said the man. “Then I’ll change it——” which he did, so suddenly and terrifically that the other cowered. The stranger snorted, and relaxed.
“What now, minion?” said he.
“Bah!” snarled Mr. Plumley: “it comes easy to a barnstormer.”
“Roscius, ye fat old Philistine,” cried the actor, striking his breast with a ragged-gloved hand: “Roscius, thou ‘villainous, obscene, greasy tallow-ketch!’ ”
“Well,” said Mr. Plumley, wiping his brow, “I meant no offence, anyhow. Have a drink?”
The stranger breathed heavily, and assumed a Napoleonic pose.