Gilbot alone took no notice of the visitor. He sat happily in his place by the fireside, his head thrown back a little and his eyes closed, beating time to imaginary singing with his empty pot.
Joe Pullen was the first to speak. He had just entered by a side door and apparently was entirely unimpressed by the Spaniard or any one else.
“Evening,” he remarked, as he walked over to the most comfortable seat in the chimney-corner and sat down. “Evening to you too, sir,” he said, noticing Dick for the first time—and then he added, peering out of the fireplace, “Mistress Sue, a rum if you please.”
Black’erchief Dick, noting that the spell was broken, swaggered forward into the firelight.
“Greeting, friends,” he said courteously, and then after looking round curiously his eyes rested on Gilbot. “Is this mine host?” he asked.
Gilbot’s eyes opened slowly and his jaw dropped as he saw for the first time the splendidly garbed figure.
“Eh?” he said at last. “Washt?” He tried to rise but gave it up as an impossibility, his brow clouded, and he turned his tankard upside down on his knee.
Dick stood looking at him, a slight smile hovering round his mouth and twitching the sides of his big Jewish nose.
Gilbot’s face cleared as suddenly as it had clouded.
“Ashk Hal,” he said triumphantly, and leaning back once more he closed his eyes.