Mr. Lock, obliging, repeated some severe strictures of Mr. Dobb’s with regard to the district council, the state of the weather, and the badness of the local railway service. He was unable, however, to add one iota to that which he had already repeated concerning Mr. Dobb’s boasted pictorial discovery.
In the circumstances it was not surprising that Mr. Lock won the game with unusual ease, for Mr. Pincott had become heavily meditative, and in this mood he continued long after he had left the billiard-table, and it was still on him in a slightly increased degree when he came down to breakfast next morning.
It was soon after that meal that the bell affixed to the door of his shop summoned Mr. Pincott to the counter. Standing near the door, in an attitude somewhat furtive and hesitant, was a stout and aged mariner whom Mr. Pincott identified as the propulsive power of the ferry plying across the harbour mouth.
“Can I—can I speak to you, private and confident, for a minute, sir?” asked Mr. Clark, hoarsely.
“It depends,” hedged Mr. Pincott.
“It ain’t nothing to do with carumgorums this time, sir,” promised Mr. Clark.
“If it’s anything the police might want to know about,” said Mr. Pincott, “you’ve come to the wrong shop. Come at the wrong time o’ day, anyway.”
“Nor it ain’t anything to do with lead piping nor door-knockers, nor anything like that, sir,” disclaimed Mr. Clark.
“Then what is it?”
Mr. Clark gazed cautiously about him, and then, articulating into the back of his hand in a conspiratorial way, whispered across the counter.