“It’s our man!” he cried, before his friend could gather his wits. “It’s Beveridge, or Bunker, or whatever he calls himself! Waiter!”
Instantly three waiters, all agog, hurried at his summons.
Mr Bunker regarded him with considerable surprise. He had quite expected that the pair would be thrown into confusion, but not that it would take this form.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began, but Welsh interrupted him by crying to the leading waiter—
“Fetch a four-wheeled cab and a policeman, quick!” As the man hesitated, he added, “This man here is an escaped lunatic.”
The waiter was starting for the door, when Mr Bunker stepped out quickly and interrupted him.
“Stop one minute, waiter,” he said, with a quiet, unruffled [pg 211] air that went far to establish his sanity. “Do I look like a lunatic? Kindly call the proprietor first.”
The stout proprietor was already on his way to their table, and the one or two other diners were beginning to gather round. Mr Bunker’s manner had impressed even Welsh, and after his nature he took refuge in bluster.
“I say, my man,” he cried, “this won’t pass. Somebody fetch a cab.”
“Vat is dees about?” asked the proprietor, coming up.