Dillingford.
Mr. Rushcroft drew himself up once more. "My dear fellow, I asked you
to have a--"
"But I had already invited Dillingford. You must allow me to extend
the invitation--"
"Say no more, sir. I understand perfectly. A flagon of ale, Bob, for
me." He leaned closer to Barnes and said, in what was supposed to be a
confidential aside: "Don't tackle the whiskey. It would kill a
rattlesnake."
A few minutes later he laid one hand fondly upon Barnes' shoulder and,
with a graceful sweep of the other in the direction of the hall,
addressed himself to Dillingford.
"Lead the way to the banquet-hall, good fellow. We follow." To the
patrons he was abandoning:
"We return anon." Passing through the office, his arm linked in one of
Barnes', Mr. Rushcroft hesitated long enough to impress upon Landlord
Jones the importance of providing his "distinguished friend, Robert W.
Barnes," with the very best that the establishment afforded. Putnam
Jones blinked slightly and his eyes sought the register as if to
accuse or justify his memory. Then he spat copiously into the corner,
a necessary preliminary to a grin. He hadn't much use for the great
Lyndon Rushcroft. His grin was sardonic.
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