“Don’t you, m’lads,” cried Isaac. “He daren’t send for a constable. I tell you he daren’t—not for me. Send for one for himself.”
Claire trembled and shuddered at those words; and, had it been possible, she would have ended the scene at any cost, but she was helpless.
For a moment Linnell had thought of seizing and dragging out the tipsy servant; but on second consideration he felt that it might just as well be done by some one in authority, so, hurrying out, he despatched one of the crowd in another direction to that taken by the two or three who had hurried off on the promise of a reward, and then turned back to see if he could be of any further service.
“Cons’able for me!” said Isaac, with tipsy gravity. “I like that. I like that—much. Let him come. Make him pay me my wages. Then I’ll go. Not before, if all the old Masters o’ Ceremonies in England wanted me to go.”
“The insolent scoundrel!” panted Denville; “after all I’ve done for him since he came to me a boy.”
“Done for me! Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Isaac; “kept me on short commons, and didn’t pay my wages. Now, then, are you going to pay my money?”
“Here he is.” “Here’s one,” rose in chorus, and way was made for the fussy-looking individual who occupied the post of chief constable of Saltinville.
“Now, then, what’s this?” he said.
“Tipsy servant,” chorussed half—a—dozen voices. “Drunk.”
“My servant, Mr Cordy,” said Denville importantly. “He has misconducted himself again and again. You see the condition he is in.”