‘He’d do something for you, I’m sure. He’s a very kind master.’
‘“A very kind master!” Oh, good Lord!... Pity the poor blind!’
‘Mr. Hartopp, Mr. Hartopp!’
The old man stopped again and faced right round.
‘Prosser, if you follow me an inch further I’ll knock out your mucky fuddled brains with my crutch all over the pavement. I swear I will. Go home and soak, you sentimental skunk.’
Prosser stood still for some time watching the angry figure bobbing down the road. Then he turned up by the Turkish Baths and made his way home.
That evening he related the whole of his adventure to Prince Dwala, not even omitting the confession of his own intemperance.
‘So you drink, do you? Drink too much of course, that is.’
‘You’re not angry, sir?’
‘Of course not. Not a bit.... It must be awfully expensive?’