“Where’s Baker?” he asked of the friendly neighbour.
“No need to ask, sir. Where he allus is o’ Saturday nights.”
“Well, he mustn’t be allowed to come in here unless he’s sober. See?”
“Who’s to keep him out, Master Max? Baker’s a bad sort when he’s the worse o’ liquor.”
“Can’t you lock the door and stand a siege?” demanded the boy, his eyes sparkling in prospect of such a diversion. “But no,” he added, professional prudence conquering pugnacious instincts, “that would worry and frighten Mrs. Baker.” Max looked down thoughtfully on his poor patient, who lay moaning in semi-unconsciousness. “I’ll do what I can,” he finished, “and you will help me, won’t you, Mrs. Lane?”
“Sure an’ I will, sir,” said the good woman heartily.
“Then stay here till my father comes. He’ll tackle Joe Baker, if I don’t succeed.”
Max paused only to speak a few words of sympathy to Mrs. Baker, and then packed his traps and started off.
At the further end of Lumber’s Yard stood a fair-sized inn, the “Jolly Dog”, much frequented by the lowest class of the male population. It was rented by a man named Daniel Luss, whose license had more than once been jeopardized by the scenes of rioting and drunkenness his premises had witnessed. But Luss’s landlord was Sir Arthur Fenn, and Sir Arthur’s county influence was great. Luss willingly paid a high rent, and the administrators of law and order let him alone.
Max ran across the snow-covered yard straight to the “Jolly Dog”. There was only one outer door. It led to the bar, and to the inn-parlour, where the more truculent spirits of Woodend congregated to discuss village politics and abuse those neighbours who struggled after respectability. Max knocked loudly on the open door, but no one appeared. At last, taking his courage in his hands, he stepped within. For the time the bar was empty, its servitors being busy in the kitchen behind, where they enjoyed black tea and bloaters and toast to an accompaniment of unparliamentary language from the adjacent parlour.