“What’s the game?” demanded Mr. Sinnett.
“No game,” puffed Mr. Tridge. “Dead serious!”
“Wasn’t that the ferryman?”
“Eh?” cried Mr. Tridge, guiltily. “No—oh, no! It wasn’t ’im. It wasn’t anybody you’d know. It—it wasn’t anybody I know!”
“But I’m certain— Did he attack you sudden? Why didn’t you call for the police?”
“We—we’d rather not ’ave the p’lice mixed up with it. It’s a—a private affair. I—I’m all right now.”
Mr. Tridge then stumbled dizzily against the other man.
“Here—here!” cried Mr. Sinnett, in concern. “Why, man, you’re shaking all over! Here, take my arm and lean on me. The ‘Cutlass and Cannon’ is quite close; you’d better have something there to pick you up and pull you together.”
Mr. Tridge lurched again, most convincingly, and Mr. Sinnett, with many encouraging remarks, began to lead him towards the tavern he had named.
“All the same,” muttered Mr. Tridge, hazily, “’e—’e didn’t get it.”