"It's shook up considerable, that's wot it is."
"All right," said Grim, hastily. "Here's a shilling. Give it a drink of beer."
This was a wretched joke really, but it brightened the face of Mr. Harris considerably when he heard it, and the loafers departed from their dispassionate attitude, and became quite friendly. The landlord went in to draw beer.
A minute afterwards the quartette was heading back for St. Amory's as hard as it could go, and whenever a halt was called for breath, three of the cronies collapsed on the earth, and howled at Rogers, who could not see the joke.
Over a quiet little tea, after call-over, at Hooper's Rogers explained fully his views.
"No, I'm not going to do any more detective work. We missed Acton and Bourne beautifully; they don't go to Westcote, and Grimmy's idea about poachin' 's rotten. He may be Acton's messenger-boy or the rider of a decent pneumatic, but I'm going to let him go his own way."
When, afterwards, they rubbed embrocation into their wearied limbs, the rest agreed with Rogers.
"But, yet," said Grim, "I'd like to know about that cartridge too."