Hal now became decidedly interested, and ordered another round of drinks, this time including the barman. The barman returned the compliment, and Bill, having four pints of beer inside him, began to talk volubly on his strong point—thoroughbreds. Still the barman seemed to think he ought to have a share of that sovereign, and again plied Bill with questions.
"Tell us, Bill. Did you prig it?"
"Prig it! You go to the devil. Come on, mate, let's have another drink," and Bill began to show signs of intoxication.
"Rather, Bill," answered Hal, pretending to be similarly affected. So far, he had succeeded in throwing his liquor down a hole in the floor.
The landlord now appeared on the scene and began to rate Bill for neglecting his work.
"I ain't a-going to chop your wood, I ain't; eh, mate? We ain't a-going to chop wood."
"No, that we ain't," said Hal, with a lurch.
The barman stopped the retort rising to the landlord's lips by whispering, "plenty of stuff," in his ear. Thereupon the latter asked where Mr. Wyckliffe had gone.
"Who?" said Bill. "He's No. 5, ain't he?"
"Yes."