"No one can say as Andrew weren't free with 'is money," observed the gaitered man.
"If it were 'is money," put in the postman unkindly.
There was a sound of steps outside, and the sudden thud of a heavy weight on the ground.
"Here 'i is," said the landlord.
The door swung open, and Mr. Bates, looking up, saw a man enter. He was a pale-faced, sandy-haired individual, with a sharp nose, watery eyes, and a general air of somewhat dissipated insolence.
"Good 'evenin', gentlemen all," he remarked. "Hallo, Potter! Give me message to Horniman?"
"That's all right, Mr. Andrew," answered the landlord. "There's a room upstairs if you want one. I'll send George along to get your box in."
"Wot's the meanin' of all this 'ere bust up?" inquired the red-whiskered man, as the new-comer settled himself down with a large glass of Hollands in front of him.
Mr. Andrew laughed with a fine assumption of independence. "Jest got sick of the old swine, and told 'im so," he replied. "Nearly 'ad a fit when I gave 'im notice."
"Must 'a' bin a blow to 'im," said the postman. "Did you get your last week's wages?"