"He has—the drunken dog? There's only me left," returned Jack.
"It wasn't till after he lost his money that he took to swilling, however," declared the innkeeper. "I know him well. The misfortune ruined his character."
"His daughter's been paid back, all the same," said Lintern. "She keeps his house, and the old boy gave the money to her, to be used or saved according as she thinks best."
"That leaves only me," said Jack.
"Me and Rupert was running over the figures a bit ago," continued Heathman. "We made out that the sporting old blade had dropped upwards of six thousand over this job, and we was wondering how much that is out of all he's got."
"A fleabite, I reckon," answered Head; but the other doubted it.
"Rupert says he thinks 'tis pretty near half of his fortune, if not more. He goes shabbier than ever, and he eats little better than orts for his food."
"That's no new thing," said another man as he held a mug for some more of the hot cider; "'twas always so, as Susan Hacker will tell you. My wife have heard her grumbling off and on these ten years about it. His food's poor and coarse, like his baccy and his cider. His clothes be kept on his back till there ban't enough of the web left to hold 'em together any longer. Susan offered an old coat to a tramp once, thinking to get it away afore Baskerville missed it; and the tramp looked it over—through and through, you might say—and he thanked Susan as saucy as you please, and told her that when he was going to set up for a mommet[[1]] he'd let her know, but 'twouldn't be yet."
[[1]] Mommet—scarecrow.
"A strange old night-hawk, and always have been," said Head. "Not a man—not even me, though I know him best—can measure him altogether. Never was such a mixture. Now he's so good-natured as the best stone, and you'll go gaily driving into him and then, suddenly, you'll strike flint, and get a spark in your eye, and wish to God you'd left the man alone. He's beyond any well-balanced mind to understand, as I've told him more than once."