His tone was so surly and menacing that Baldwin, who had dropped into a chair and was staring at him with blinking eyes that had something of fear in them as well as wonder, found himself without words.
“If you’ve aught to say to me about the shop—aught ’at either I or the other chaps have got to do, I’ll take your instructions. If it’s your business affairs you’re troubled with you must fight ’em out yourself; I’ve said all I can say.”
“Oh, you have, have you? And I must, must I?”—the spark of life in Baldwin’s spirit manifested itself in one last kick against this unwelcome dictatorship; but his dependence on the other’s strength made actual opposition impossible, and the defiant tone ended in a surly whine.
“You’ll be same as all t’ rest, I reckon. When t’ old dog’s teeth are gone and there’s naught left but its bark, every cur’ll snap at it.”
“Every dog has its day,” commented Inman cynically. “I’ve offered to prolong yours, and these writs you are talking about needn’t have worried you. I can say no more.”
Baldwin’s eyes rested wearily upon the letters that strewed the table in front of him. For a moment or two he said nothing; but his brow bent more and more until tiny drops of moisture appeared above the coarse pepper-coloured hairs which bristled like those of a wild boar. Inman watched him in silence.
“Have you that brass handy?” The eyes were not raised from the table, and the voice was a hollow echo of Baldwin’s.
“You can have it as soon as the document’s ready.”
“Then get t’ document, and be hanged to you!”
Baldwin rose and went over to the cupboard; but Inman interposed.