They cut his cords. Jacob staggered to his feet and stretched himself. A bottle and glasses upon a table at the farther end of the room attracted his attention.
“Is that whisky?” he asked, in an interested manner.
“Guess we’ll find you a Scotch and soda,” Hartwell declared. “Don’t you feel too badly about this, Pratt,” he went on, as he handed him the tumbler. “We’d have gone for a much bigger thing with you, but for Miss Bultiwell. She wouldn’t have you bled for more, and she wouldn’t have us take you where I wanted to, down Limehouse way, where we could have kept you snugly for a week, if necessary.”
“Extraordinarily considerate of her,” Jacob observed drily, as he drained the contents of the tumbler.
“I can tell you, sir,” Hartwell went on, as he handed over his cigarette case, “out in the State where I come from, we should think nothing of a hold-up like this. Why, you haven’t a scratch, and you could afford to put that five thou in the plate at church and not notice it. Have one more small one for luck.”
“I don’t mind if I do,” Jacob acquiesced.... “You fellows must see some life.”
“Not on this side,” Hartwell replied despondently. “We’re too near the edge of your little island all the time, for a job of this sort. I’m in a bit of trouble over in the States, or I shouldn’t be wasting my time here.”
Jacob stretched himself expansively in the easy-chair. He thrust his hands into his pockets and sighed.
“Just about reached the bank, hasn’t she?”
“They’re counting out the flimsies right now,” Hartwell exulted.