"That is the social heart and center of Funchal," I told him, quite truly.
The hairy and muscular proprietor of the Golden Gate was nodding over the great porcelain handles of his beer pumps like a switchman in his tower.
"Good morning," said Angus Jones. "I see you have no billiard marker. 'Tis a great pity, but soon mended."
The proprietor rolled out with a formidable roar, rubbing his eyes.
"Pedro, my glasses! Billiar'? On the minute, mos' honorable sir. How stupid am I that a ship should be in and I catched in a sleeping! We have a ver' fine table of billiar', French or English, if you please should look. Pedro, my glasses! Is it a Castle Liner you arrive by, mos' honorable? Will you have beer or wheesky-sod'?" He bobbed and leered, blind as an owl. I might have warned Angus Jones, but I did not. I only stood where I had a clear space to the door.
"All in good time," said Angus Jones. "I speak of a marker. In billiards, if you mark me, the marking is a proper art. Now, there I meet you as an expert. Give me charge of your billiard room, and I'll double your business."
"Billiar'? Yes, yes; only wait.... Pedro!"
Pedro appeared as from a trap, with a pair of spectacles.
"Do I get the job?" asked Angus Jones.