"What's your name, old chap?" asked Hal, going towards him.
"My name is Thomas St. Clair Jones," he answered, with dignity.
"Well, Mr. Thomas St. Clair Jones, have another pint."
"I'm not in the habit of drinking with strangers, but as you are a gentleman like myself, I don't mind," and he graciously handed his pot to be filled.
"Now then, Jones, button up your coat, pull up your breeches, put your hat on straight, and lead the way," said Hal, in an imperious voice. To the surprise of Reg Jones did exactly as he was told, pulled himself together, and obediently led the way out.
"I thought as much," said Hal to his friend. "He's a lag and has been used to obey orders."
The procession halted in front of a dilapidated-looking building, commonly known as the Police Station. In answer to a knock an antiquated sergeant appeared and entrusted Jones with the keys after a whispered colloquy in which one could distinguish the word "halves." Jones preceded them with the keys, but had not gone far when Hal called out to him:
"Say, Jones: what were you sent out for?"
Jones cast a withering glance at the speaker, which softened from indignation to injured innocence in so dramatic a manner that Hal almost felt sorry he had spoken. Then he silently turned and resumed his road to the prisons.
"Jones, come back," said Hal, in his voice of authority, which again was instantly obeyed. "I ask again, what were you sent out here for; and I may say if you do not answer my question this yellow boy will stay in my pocket."