“That’s him,” said Harman. “You leave him to me.”
Blood was not the sort of man to frequent a hole like the Fore and Aft, and he frankly spat when he came in. He was in a temper, or rather the beginning of a temper, and Harman seemed to have some difficulty in soothing him. They had a confabulation together near the corner where Captain Mike, his glass and pipe on the table before him, was sitting, evidently asleep, and then Blood, seeming to agree with some matter under discussion, allowed himself to be led to the bar.
“This is me friend, Captain Ginnell,” said Harman. “Captain, this is me friend, Michael Blood. Looking for a ship he is.”
“I can’t offer him a ship,” said Ginnell, “but I can offer him a drink. What are you takin’, sir?”
Blood called for a whisky.
The quinine tabloid popped into the bottom of the glass by Bone dissolved almost immediately, nor did Blood show that he detected the presence in his drink. He loathed quinine, and this forced dose added to the flood of his steadily rising temper without, however, interfering with his powers of self-control.
He was a good actor, and the way he clutched at the bar ledge shortly after he had finished his drink left nothing to be desired.
“Let him lay down,” said Harman.
“I can’t leave the bar,” said Bone, “but if the gentleman cares to lay down in my back room he’s welcome.”