To the landlord’s great annoyance his guest went for a walk next morning and did not return until the evening, when he explained that he had walked too far for his crippled condition and was unable to get back. Much sympathy was manifested for him in the bar, but in all the conversation that ensued Mr. Ketchmaid listened in vain for any hint of his departure. Signals were of no use, Mr. Wiggett merely nodding amiably and raising his glass in response; and when, by considerable strategy, he brought the conversation from pig-killing to nieces, Mr. Wiggett deftly transferred it to uncles and discoursed on pawn-broking.
The helpless Mr. Ketchmaid suffered in silence, with his eye on the clock, and almost danced with impatience at the tardiness of his departing guests. He accompanied the last man to the door, and then, crimson with rage, returned to the bar to talk to Mr. Wiggett.
“Wot d’y’r mean by it?” he thundered.
“Mean by what, Sol?” inquired Mr. Wiggett, looking up in surprise.
“Don’t you call me Sol, ’cos I won’t have it,” vociferated the landlord, standing over him with his fist clenched. “First thing to-morrow morning off you go.”
“Off?” repeated the other in amazement. “Off? Whereto?”
“Anywhere,” said the overwrought landlord; “so long as you get out of here, I don’t care where you go.”
Mr. Wiggett, who was smoking a cigar, the third that evening, laid it carefully on the table by his side, and regarded him with tender reproach.
“You ain’t yourself, Sol,” he said, with conviction; “don’t say another word else you might say things you’ll be sorry for.”
His forebodings were more than justified, Mr. Ketchmaid indulging in a few remarks about his birth, parentage, and character which would have shocked an East-end policeman.