"Yes, sir?" said the boots, appearing in his shirt-sleeves. "Why,
'ullo! Mr. Jackson, sir!"
Mike was well known to all dwellers in Lower Borlock, his scores being
the chief topic of conversation when the day's labours were over.
"I want to see Mr. Barley, Jack."
"He's bin in bed this half-hour back, Mr. Jackson."
"I must see him. Can you get him down?"
The boots looked doubtful. "Roust the guv'nor outer bed?" he said.
Mike quite admitted the gravity of the task. The landlord of the
"White Boar" was one of those men who need a beauty sleep.
"I wish you would--it's a thing that can't wait. I've got some money
to give to him."
"Oh, if it's _that_--" said the boots.
Five minutes later mine host appeared in person, looking more than
usually portly in a check dressing-gown and red bedroom slippers of
the _Dreadnought_ type.
"You can pop off, Jack."
Exit boots to his slumbers once more.
"Well, Mr. Jackson, what's it all about?"
"Jellicoe asked me to come and bring you the money."
"The money? What money?"
"What he owes you; the five pounds, of course."
"The five--" Mr. Barley stared open-mouthed at Mike for a moment;
then he broke into a roar of laughter which shook the sporting prints
on the wall and drew barks from dogs in some distant part of the
house. He staggered about laughing and coughing till Mike began to
expect a fit of some kind.
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