“I’ve chucked pubs,” said Huckaby.
“Come off it,” sneered Billiter. “At any rate, you can stand a round of drinks.”
“I’ve chucked drink, too,” said Huckaby. “I’ve sworn off. I’ll never touch a drop of liquor as long as I live—and I advise you fellows to do the same.”
They burst out laughing, asked him for tickets for his next temperance lecture, and then began to abuse him after the manner of their kind.
“This is a decent street,” said Huckaby, “so please don’t make a row.”
“We’re not making any row,” cried Billiter. “We only want our share of the money.”
“What money? Didn’t I write and tell you the whole thing was off? She couldn’t stick it, and neither could I. Quixtus hasn’t given her one penny piece.”
“We’ll see what the lady has to say about that,” growled Billiter.
“You’re going to leave that lady alone henceforth and for ever,” said Huckaby, with a new ring of authority in his voice.
The others sneered. Since when had Huckaby constituted himself squire of dames? Billiter, with profane asseveration, would do exactly what he chose. Wasn’t it his scheme? He deserved his share. Vandermeer gloomily reminded him that he had cast doubts from the first on Huckaby’s probity. He had put them in the cart in fine fashion. They refused to believe in Lena Fontaine’s squeamishness. Huckaby grew impatient.