Levy Moss winked one bleared eye cunningly.
“I’m smart, Mr. Dagle; I keep my eyes open and my feet a-moving.”
“Just so,” said Leonard, “and if you’ll be good enough to move them out of my room I shall be obliged. Please observe that these are my rooms, Mr. Moss, and not Mr. Newcombe’s, and that I am not desirous of further visits from you.”
“You’re sharp, too, Mr. Dagle,” said Moss; “but Mr. Newcombe’s here; you don’t want two cups and saucers, and two plates, you know, for your breakfast, eh?”
“Get out!” said Len, who, when he was roused was, like most quiet men, rather hot-headed. “Get out! and, by the way, if you meet Mr. Newcombe, I’d advise you to keep clear of him; he’s back from America and carries two revolvers and a bowie knife, and I needn’t tell you, who know him so well, that he’d as soon put a bullet through your head or stick the knife in between your ribs as look at you—far rather, perhaps.”
Moss turned pale.
“I hope Mr. Jack won’t do anything rash.”
“I won’t answer for him. They don’t think much of killing your sort of people on the other side, Moss. Get out,” and Mr. Moss shuffled out; Leonard bolting the door after him.
Jack came in and sat down quietly and gravely.
“I’ve frightened him,” said Leonard, smiling. “He’ll keep clear of you for a day or two. But how did he know you were back? He couldn’t have been keeping watch for all these months.”