It was a sorry collection. Bits of string, a heavy clasp knife, a half-eaten sandwich, a letter or two from the old country made up the total with a few small coins.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“All right, put them back. I’m glad we’ve nothing to return to the rightful owners. Now come with me and I’ll show you your room. The first thing you’d better do is to take a bath.”
“By God, sor,” he said, and stopped, the blood flooding his face. “Ye’ll—ye’ll not regret it!” he added quietly, a moment later.
So I took him into my service, ostensibly as a valet, a nuisance which I did not want in the least, but actually for the aid his knowledge of the under-world might prove in my search. But before a week had passed I had learned to like the man for himself, for his cheery optimism, his courage and his faithfulness, also somewhat for his incurable laziness and bragging, though it would never have done to let him know it; and I spent most of our time together outlining the most unflattering views on his ancestry and personal habits.
We had already pulled out of some pretty tight corners together, but through it all he had stood by me, plucky, optimistic, for ever bragging and for ever ready for anything. To tell the truth he had pulled me back to a sane frame of mind more than once with his nonsense. But whether he knew this and did it on purpose or not I could not tell.
Up on the roof now, he stood beside me for a moment before he spoke.
“Well?” I demanded, sharply.
“There’s a gintleman to see ye, sor. Says his name is Bertrand Moore, or some such thruck as that. He gave me no cyard. I did tell him, sor, that ye would not be wishful to be disturbed. But he was all for seein’ ye, whether or no. Sure he folleyed me up here a ways, till I turned back to him. Shall I sind him about his business?”