He had scarcely effected the transformation, however, before the Deacon popped his head in again. Mr. Mott looked like a caught schoolboy, but though the beady eyes looked straight at the flamboyant hunters, Mr. Mawhood only said: “Oi forgot to lend a law-book.”
“What sort of a law-book d’ye want?”
“Miss Gentry’s got a counter-claim. Ef Oi won’t pay for my wife’s silk dress as Oi never ordered, she says my ferrets killed her chickens.”
“That’s not a counter-claim, Mr. Mawhood,” advised Will.
“It’s a lyin’ claim, anyways. What killed her chickens was her own black devil, Squibs. Her and her angels!”
“You go down to the bar and see if the missus can find you a book—but wouldn’t a lawyer be better?”
“The good Lord forbid! Oi’d sooner goo to a doctor. Well, thank you kindly, brother—one good turn desarves another. Foive, Oi think you said.”
“Or six. First thing in the morning. Spunky ’uns, remember.”
The Deacon sighed and disappeared again.
“Poor old chap!” Sure of his rats, Mr. Mott was now touched to sympathy. “His missus is a Tartar, no mistake. Still with them rounds of his, he dodges her a good deal.” And he sighed like the Deacon and followed him—bear’s-grease after aniseed—and Will, alone at last, followed too, though without a sigh, being still—as the waiter said—“one of the lucky ones.”