"Glass of beer, please," he said, as the landlord, with an interrogative glance, threw up a small wooden partition that communicated with the bar.
The refreshment having arrived, and Mr. Bates having parted with three of his four last half-pennies, the general conversation interrupted by his entrance was resumed.
"Seems to be something funny about it," observed the landlord, looking across at the thin man with gaiters who was sitting on the edge of the table.
"Blooming funny!" emphasized the local postman.
"Well, that were his message, any'ow. 'E says: 'Tell 'Orniman that I'll be along with my box by 'alf-past nine, and that I'll be wanting to sleep the night,' 'E's 'ad a proper row with the old man and chucked 'is job—that's what 'e's done."
"Got the sack, more like," observed the postman, spitting ironically into the fire.
"That's as it may be; anyway, I've gived the message."
"What's the Professor going to do?" inquired the landlord.
"Ah," said the man with gaiters. "Advertise for summon else, I suppose. 'E won't 'ave no women about the place, that's certain."
"Job worth 'aving," put in a red-whiskered man who had not previously spoken—"at least, judgin' by the amount o' drink Andrew got through."