“Not just yet, my dear friend,” Montague interposed. “It seems a shame to have taken a dislike to so amiable a gentleman, but the fact remains that we do not like you, Joe Hartwell and I. Once or twice you have been too clever for us. We want to linger over the time when we are just a little too clever for you. So au revoir, Jacob Pratt, until after lunch.”
They came again after lunch, redolent of food and drink and tobacco.
“What about a cold chicken and a pint of Mumm, eh?” Montague suggested through the bars.
“Go to hell!” Jacob, who had forgotten his early breakfast and liked his meals regularly, retorted.
They indulged in a few other pleasantries, which Jacob cut short with an abrupt question.
“How long is this tomfoolery going on?” he demanded. “What’s the end of it all going to be?”
Montague, with his unpleasant, leering face, was pushed away from behind the grating. Hartwell took his place.
“You’re going to be paid out for that upper cut you gave me, for one thing,” he announced. “We’re going to wait until you’re tamed, and then you’re going to be thrashed within an inch of your life. After that, there’s a little estate of the Marquis’s round here you might like to buy. We’ve got the agreement all drawn out.”
“And after that,” Montague shouted, “God knows what will happen to you!”...