While he spoke, Jim pocketed the money. Receiving no reply except a sniff of Mr. Potts's red nose, he broke out again, more briefly:
"I tell 'ee what, guv'nor of the Marmaid, I don't go out o' your house till I've put a name upon it."
Quite defeated and rather dejected, Mr. Potts took down his best brandy, and poured out a bumper.
Jim tossed it off, and set down the glass. Then, and not till then, he turned to Thomas, who had been looking on, half vexed with Mr. Potts, and half amused with Jim.
"Well, I am glad, Mr. Wurbus, as you've turned out a honest man arter all. I assure you, sir, at one time, and that not much farther off than that 'ere glass o' rum—"
"Brandy, you loafing rascal! the more's the pity," said Mr. Potts.
"Than that 'ere glass o' rum," repeated Jim, "I had my doubts. I wasn't so sure of it, as the fox was o' the goose when he had his neck atwixt his teeth."
So saying, and without another word, Jim Salter turned and left the Mermaid. Jim was one of those who seem to have an especial organ for the sense of wrong, from which organ no amount or kind of explanation can ever remove an impression. They prefer to cherish it. Their very acknowledgments of error are uttered in a tone that proves they consider the necessity of making them only in the light of accumulated injury.
CHAPTER L.