“Shan’t you call?” asked Berry, jerking his head in the direction of the inn, which stood at the corner between two roads, its sign hanging under a bare horse-chestnut tree in front.
“I might as well. Come in an’ have a drink,” said the uncle.
It had been raining all the morning, so shallow pools of water lay about. A brewer’s wagon, with wet barrels and warm-smelling horses, stood near the door of the inn. Everywhere seemed silent, but for the rattle of trains at the crossing. The two men went uneasily up the steps and into the bar. The place was paddled with wet feet, empty. As the bar-man was heard approaching, the uncle asked, his usual bluster slightly hushed by fear:
“What yer goin’ ta have, lad? Same as last time?”
A man entered, evidently the proprietor. He was good-looking, with a long, heavy face and quick, dark eyes. His glance at Sutton was swift, a start, a recognition, and a withdrawal, into heavy neutrality.
“How are yer, Dan?” he said, scarcely troubling to speak.
“Are yer, George?” replied Sutton, hanging back. “My nephew, Dan Berry.—Give us Red Seal, George.”
The publican nodded to the younger man, and set the glasses on the bar. He pushed forward the two glasses, then leaned back in the dark corner behind the door, his arms folded, evidently preferring to get back from the watchful eyes of the nephew.
“—’s luck,” said Sutton.
The publican nodded in acknowledgement. Sutton and his nephew drank.