Chapter Twenty.
A Forced Hand.
“Now then, old josser, where are you coming to? have you bought the whole room or only half, eh?”
The time was the middle of the morning, the place the saloon bar of the Golden Crown in Bassingham, and the speaker Bob Calmour, who had been indulging in more John Walker than was good for him, incidentally at the expense of an opportune friend. The man thus unceremoniously expostulated with was a tallish man with a weather-beaten face and a white beard, who had committed the grave indiscretion of being there what time the unsteady Bob had lurched backward, thus cannoning against him. We have seen him twice before for a short space—once at Hilversea Court and once in Hilversea park.
“See here, young man,” was the answer, drily given, “I think it’s time you went home.”
“See here, old cock, when I want to know what you think I’ll ask; till then I’ll trouble you to keep it to yourself.”
And the tone was particularly aggressive and insulting.
“If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head I shall be under the necessity of starting you on the first homeward stage by firing you into the street,” said the stranger with the most provoking tranquillity.
That white beard proved Bob’s undoing. He associated it with age, and age with decrepitude.