“Three coffees, Pat,” he cried, leaning across the shoulder of a heavy, red-headed fellow who lolled against the counter. “And two lumps of sugar in each.”
“To hell wid yer sugar!” roared Dougal, grasping three cups deftly in one hairy hand and filling them from a steaming urn. “There’s no more sugar tonight.”
“Not any brown sugar?” asked the customer.
“Yez can have one tayspoon of brown, and no more tonight,” cried Dougal.
He stooped rapidly below the counter, then pushed the three cups of coffee towards the detective. The latter tossed a shilling down, at which Dougal glared ferociously.
“’Twas wid sugar ye said!” he roared.
A second shilling followed. Dougal swept both coins into a drawer and turned to another customer, who was also clamoring for coffee. Securing their cups with difficulty, for the red-headed man surlily refused to budge, they retired to a comparatively quiet spot, and Seton tasted the hot beverage.
“H’m,” he said. “Rum! Good rum, too!”
“It’s a nice position for me,” snapped Kerry. “I don’t think I would remind you that there’s a police station actually on this blessed island. If there was a dive like Dougal’s anywhere West it would be raided as a matter of course. But to shut Dougal’s would be to raise hell. There are two laws in England, sir; one for Piccadilly and the other for the Isle of Dogs!” He sipped his coffee with appreciation. Jervis looked about him cautiously, and:
“That’s George—the red-headed hooligan against the counter,” he said. “He’s been liquoring up pretty freely, and I shouldn’t be surprised to find that he’s got a job on tonight. He has a skiff beached below here, and I think he’s waiting for the tide.”