“Yow can’t, I tell you,” cried Sim. “We’re a setting wi’ closed doors.”
“Open ’em, then,” said Harry, “or I will. Here, summun, a gill o’ ale.”
“And I wants some ’bacco,” said another voice.
Sim hammered away at the board for a bit, when Harry exclaimed, leaning his great arms on the table, and grinning,
“Say, lads, I niver see owd Simmy handle a harmmer like that up at th’ wucks.”
“Silence!” roared Sim, in the midst of a hearty laugh from the men. “Fellow paytriots and sitterzens, as Grand Brother of this order, I say—eh, what?”
Sim leaned down to the deputation, who had pulled his sleeve.
“Better let them have in the drink,” whispered Mr Barker, “it makes ’em more trackable.”
“All raight,” said Sim, in an ill-used tone. “Here, send out for what’s wanted, you two at the door, for no one isn’t to enter.”
There was a bustle at the door after this, and various orders were shouted downstairs, and eagerly responded to by the landlord, who wanted to bring all in, but was stayed by the sentries.