At that instant a stalwart young man, very angry and with one discolored eye that lent him an uncommonly truculent appearance, looked down on us from the upper hall; then he deliberately ignored the arguing policeman, strode to the head of the stairs and descended to the landing.
"It's all right, Callahan," said Stodger to the discomfited blue-coat.
The young man halted before us.
"Ass!" he growled, staring hard at me.
Stodger made the epithet exclusively mine with a bow and a broad grin. Instantly the young fellow flushed and stammered an apology.
"I didn't mean either of you chaps," he explained, in embarrassment. "It's that chuckle-headed hod-carrier in a blue uniform. If he gives me any more of his cheek, I 'll take his club from him and hand him a wallop over the head with it—dashed if I don't."
He looked eminently capable of doing it, too. He paused, his look resting upon me with an interrogation.
"Are you in authority here?" he bluntly demanded.
"I suppose so. Are you Mr. Maillot?"
"I am. And I 'd like to know how much longer I 'll have to stay in this beastly cold-storage warehouse. I 'm plenty tired of it right now, if you want to know."