Spinelli strode up to the bar.
"Is it possible," he said in a voice of freezing dignity which somehow reminded Hugh of Maw Standish, "is it possible, my man, or isn't it, to get any service in this place?"
A part of the clamor had died down to a buzz; there were many people straining their ears. Spinelli's elaborate unconsciousness of everything, his airs and dignity, made a rather ludicrous spectacle. The proprietor sprang forward.
"I'm sorry zir! I'm sorry! Thought they do be and attended to 'ee, zir! Ysszir?"
“I’ll have brandy? said the other, aloofly fingering his tie. "If you have any. Your best. Bring the bottle, and give me a glass of beer with it. Would you like a drink?"
"Ah! Thank 'eezir. Eh don't mind."
If Spinelli got a good view of him, Hugh was thinking… He turned still farther away. But the American was not noticing. Pouring out a large dose of brandy, he swallowed it neat and followed it with a draught of beer. Then he poured another. The landlord, with a great carelessness of manner, was opening a bottle of home-brewed.
"Nice weather we'm 'aving, Mr. Travers," he observed critically.
"Uh."
"Ah! Bit waarm, though," the landlord qualified with a judicial air. The bottle cap went Sss-t! and the landlord frowned still more judicially as he poured out his beer. "Still, zir, the' get him much waarmer in the States, I expect?"