Next moment, he was in the midst of the sweltering mob, boring his way diligently through it, his eyes and ears on the alert for the sight of the grey tweeds and the sound of the Irish voice.
It was at the refreshment stall that he found his prey.
Mr. Giveen, with a cup of tea in one hand and a bun in the other, was talking to Miss Smith-Jackson, who was replying in icy monosyllables.
"Faith, and the country about here is very different from the country I come from. You don't know where that is, do you? Do you, now? Well, I'll tell ye; it's the country of pretty girls and good whisky. Not that I ever drink it. What are you smilin' at? I give you me oath, a sup of whisky hasn't passed me lips these twenty years."
"One and six, please," replied Miss Smith-Jackson, in still icier monosyllables.
"I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Giveen, who had swallowed his bun and was now "saucering" his tea, Anglice drinking it, for coolness, out of the saucer.
"One and six, please."
"And for what, if you please? Do you mane to tell me you're going to charge me one and six for a cup of tea and a bun?"
"Our charge is one and sixpence."
"May I never swallow bite or sup again if this isn't the biggest 'do' I ever came across! And I paying sixpence at the door to get in, and they told me, when I asked them, the refreshments were free. I won't pay it."