“I want to see Mr. Barley, Jack.”
“He’s bin in bed this half-hour back, Mr. Jackson.”
“I must see him. Can you get him down?”
The boots looked doubtful. “Roust the guv’nor outer bed?” he said.
Mike quite admitted the gravity of the task. The landlord of the “White Boar” was one of those men who need a beauty sleep.
“I wish you would—it’s a thing that can’t wait. I’ve got some money to give to him.”
“Oh, if it’s that—” said the boots.
Five minutes later mine host appeared in person, looking more than usually portly in a check dressing-gown and red bedroom slippers of the Dreadnought type.
“You can pop off, Jack.”
Exit boots to his slumbers once more.