“Glory! Glory!” ejaculated a long, thin youth, and, making a dash for the door, disappeared.
“He’ll know me better in time,” said Mr. Billing. “Why, I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I want to do good to people; not to hurt ’em. I’ll have a pint,” he added, turning to the bar.
“Not here you won’t,” said the landlord, eyeing him coldly.
“Why not?” demanded the astonished Mr. Billing.
“You’ve had all you ought to have already,” was the reply. “And there’s one thing I’ll swear to—you ain’t had it ’ere.”
“I haven’t ’ad a drop pass my lips began the outraged Mr. Billing.
“Yes, I know,” said the other, wearily, as he shifted one or two glasses and wiped the counter; “I’ve heard it all before, over and over again. Mind you, I’ve been in this business thirty years, and if I don’t know when a man’s had his whack, and a drop more, nobody does. You get off ’ome and ask your missis to make you a nice cup o’ good strong tea, and then get up to bed and sleep it off.”
“I dare say,” said Mr. Billing, with cold dignity, as he paused at the door—“I dare say I may give up beer altogether.”
He stood outside pondering over the unforeseen difficulties attendant upon his new career, moving a few inches to one side as Mr. Ricketts, a foe of long standing, came towards the public-house, and, halting a yard or two away, eyed him warily.
“Come along,” said Mr. Billing, speaking somewhat loudly, for the benefit of the men in the bar; “I sha’n’t hurt you; my fighting days are over.”