“Guess not,” said Bar. “My clothes are pretty good, and I’ve collected my last six months’ wages out of the money you gave me when you came in last night. There’s a receipt for it, and there’s the rest of the money. You’ll find it all right.”
“Wages? Receipt? Jack Chills!” almost screamed Major Montague.
“Exactly,” said Bar. “I’ve stopped working for nothing and being knocked down for it; good-bye, old fellow.”
So saying, Barnaby Vernon, for he somehow felt safe about so calling himself, picked up a very well-filled leather traveling bag with one hand and the mysterious little valise with the other, and started for the door.
“Jack Chills! Barnaby! Come back with that money! I’ll have you arrested! I’ll strangle you!”
“Stop that noise,” replied Bar, “or I’ll douse you all over.”
“Barnaby!”
“There, then if I must!”
Barnaby had put down the valise and caught up the pitcher, and the voice of the man on the bed died away in a wretched sort of shivering whine as the chilly flood came swashing down upon him.
“How he does hate water,” muttered Bar, as he again seized his new-found property, and glided out into the passageway. Neither voice nor pursuing feet came after him, for Major Montague was struggling frantically, like a man with the hydrophobia, to divest himself of his saturated habiliments, and his rum-destroyed strength was by no means equal to the task.