Jerry might be slow at times. Not always.
“As you are!” he commanded. At the same time his hand dropped to his hip.
A queer, cowed look came over the cabin-dweller’s face.
“Oh, all right. ’Ave your own way!” he grumbled. “W’at d’ y’ want?”
“The pigeon.”
The man’s face worked strangely. He was like a man about to go into a convulsion. Reading these signs of distress, Curlie spoke more gently.
“We think he carried a message. We—”
“You think!” the little man broke in. “I know. He does! An’ ’at message you’ll ’ave, an’ welcome! But not ’im!”
“All right. The message,” agreed Curlie.
The little man disappeared into a narrow room at the back, only to reappear with a small billet enclosed in thin oil-cloth.