"MacManus—?" asked the waiter, beginning to believe that this strange little creature must in fact be a "regular" of the "bunch"—one whose name and face had somehow, unaccountably, slipped from his memory.
"November," P. Sybarite corrected.
"Oh, he's stickin' round—pretty busy to-night. Wouldn't fuss him, 'f I was yuh, 'less it's somethin' extra."
"I make you," said the little man. "But this is his business. Tell him I have a message for him, will you?"
"Just as yuh say, bo'," returned the other cautiously. "What's it goin' to be? Bucket of grape or a tub of suds?"
"Do I look like the foolish waters?" enquired P. Sybarite with mild resentment. "Back me up a shell of lather."
Grinning amiably at this happy metaphorical description of the glass of lager regularly served at Dutch House, the waiter shouldered through the swinging doors to the bar....
Then fell a brief lull in the mélange of music and tongues, during which a boyish voice lifted up in clear remonstrance at a table some three removed from that at which P. Sybarite sat:
"But I don't want anything more to drink!"
P. Sybarite looked that way. The owner of the voice (now again drowned) was apparently a youngster of twenty years—not more—clean of limb and feature, with a hot flush discolouring his good-looking face, a hectic glitter in his eyes, and a stubborn smile on his lips.