“Ay, by his accounts,” agreed the landlord. “If half he said was true, he won’t have to do any more billiard-marking and odd-jobbing.”
“Not while the money lasts, at any rate,” said the man in the mackintosh. “Have you got anyone to take his place yet?”
The landlord, shaking his head, replied that he had not yet found a successor to Ted. Billiard-markers, he added, were scarce; people who desired employment as such were, as a rule, of one or two unsatisfactory classes, knowing either too little or too much.
Mr. Lock, assimilating this talk, lifted his eyes and peered as it were through the mists of his troubles. Here, obviously, was a vacancy going, and one which he was well qualified to fill, for his knowledge of the billiard table was neither elementary nor academic. A post as a marker and odd-job man at the “Royal William” appealed with equal force to his temperament and his talents. He could conceive of no form of employment more compatible with his desires. He almost groaned with mortification at the thought that he had allowed a faux pas to ruin his chances of so delectable a situation.
None the less, he determined to make sure that his opportunity was indeed irrevocably lost, and, to that end, when the landlady had temporarily quitted the apartment, he sidled up to the host of the “Royal William,” and put a blunt inquiry to him.
“No chance whatever!” answered that worthy, regretfully shaking his head.
“You’ll find me just the sort of chap you want,” pleaded Mr. Lock.
“I’ve no doubt of it,” accepted the landlord. “If it was only me what had the say, you could start to-morrow. I don’t mind admitting straight to your face that I’ve took to you. You’ve got a civil, well-bred, amoosin’ way with you. You’d get on like a house afire with the gents in the billiard-room. But—”
He shook his head again, sighed, and left the ellipsis to carry its own implication.
“The missis, eh?” said Mr. Lock, sadly.