Daniel rose from the table, pushing a small pile of silver and copper coins towards his companion in the game.
“You’ve got the luck, Rat. I believe it’s that monkey’s paw of yours that gets the cards witched the way you want them,” and he raised his tankard.
Crumblejohn watched him as he stood draining it, and in the moment that Dan’s face was covered, the landlord looked at the rat-faced man. Some intelligence passed between them. A message slid from the lowered lid of old Crumblejohn to the shifty, watery eyes of the man called Rat. Daniel replaced the tankard, and saying good-night to his companions, left the room.
Crumblejohn rose and barred the shutters and locked the outer door, then closing the door of communication between the inner parlour and the kitchen, he sat down again to smoke.
“We’ve got a big job on hand, and it’s likely to miscarry if we can’t get a message over. How do you think Dan’l is working out in the matter?” he asked of his companion.
“He won’t come in,” Rat replied in his whingeing voice. “And if you think you’ll get Dan’l into it you’re much mistaken, my friend; what’s more, we must keep an eye on Dan’l.”
“Keep an eye on him?” said Crumblejohn, “a more guileless crittur you couldn’t find, to my thinking. Keep our eye on Dan’l?” he repeated.
“What d’you think he’s hanging about here for, living as he does two villages off?” said the other. “D’you think he comes here for the hair and hexercise? No, he’s deeper than what you take him for, is Dan’l—you take my word for it. What news of the Lambkin, eh?”
“Nothing but this,” answered Crumblejohn, stretching a bit of rag upon the table. Both men leaned closely over it, deciphering with difficulty the ill-written message it contained:—
“Fresh lot to be shipped 18. If change of place, send lad.”