In spite of his night vigil Tom Hammond was in his office at his usual hour. He had been there about an hour when there came a short, sharp rap on the panel of his room-door. In response to his “Come in!” Joyce, the drunken reporter lurched in. In some way he had contrived to elude those on duty in the enquiry-office.
He was the worse for drink, and in response to Hammond’s sharp queries:
“What do you want? How came you here unannounced?” he began to “beg the loan of five shillings.”
“Not a copper!” cried Hammond.
Joyce whined for it.
Hammond refused more sharply.
The drunken wretch cringed, whimpered for “just ’arf-a-crown.”
The fellow began to bluster, then to threaten.
“If you don’t leave this room, I’ll hurl you out,” cried Hammond, “and give you in custody of the police.”