“Well yourself,” French grunted, mimicking the other’s tone.
The fat man looked up, then a smile dawned on his rubicund countenance, and he got heavily to his feet and held out a huge hand. “Why, Joe, old son, I’m glad to see you. It’s a long time since you blew in. Bring the chair around to the fire and let’s hear the news.”
French did as he was told, as he answered, “All’s well, Tom? Busy?”
“Not too busy for a chat with you. How’s the Yard?”
“The Yard’s going strong; same old six and eightpence. I often think you did wisely to chuck it up and start in here. More your own boss, eh?”
The fat man shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, handing a tobacco pouch to his visitor. “I don’t know. More your own boss, perhaps; but more worry. If you don’t get jobs here, you don’t get your pay, and no pension at the end except the interest on what you save up. I’ve thought of that pension many a time since I left.”
“Rubbish!” French exclaimed genially as he filled his pipe. “You’re too young to be talking of pensions. I was here looking for you about a week ago, but you were in Scotland.”
“Yes, I was at that Munro case. Acting for old Munro. I think he’ll pull it off.”
“I dare say.” The talk drifted on, then French turned it to the object of his call.