He rapped again, and immediately the door was opened a second time, but now with an air of business; a heavy step shuffled across the cabin, and the landlord appeared at the glazed door.
Mr. Breeds was not the Mr. Breeds of a former experience. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and was here the master of everything but himself. In illustration of this, his puffed and heated face bore an expression of boldness that was entirely the painting of strong waters. Tipsy, he was a cumbrous changeling, with just a sufficiency of humour to be insolent.
He drew the red tip of his “churchwarden” so far out of the corner of his mouth as to allow passage to a question fired awry in a spit of smoke.
“What d’ye call for?”
Mr. Tuke put his clinched left hand on the counter, and stared sternly in the bloated face.
“I want nothing but a word with you. It’s this. Do you know who I am?”
“Sure,” said Mr. Breeds, with a chuckle.
“That’s well. Now listen. There’s Winton, a city fifteen miles off, and a fast gaol in it. Men lie by the heels there for lesser crimes than housebreaking, and hang, too.”
For all his liquid cargo the landlord went white.
“I dare say, sir—I dare say,” quoth he, in a jerking voice. “And how do that concern me?”