Part 15 (2/2)
For several seconds he stood with the door no more than six inches ajar, staring and blinking at the caller, his wind-tanned brow forbidding, but his lower face as expressionless as a panel of the door.
”Who d'ye want, sir?” he inquired at last, in a grudging voice.
”Good!” exclaimed Mr. Banks. ”I really thought you were asleep, Timothy. I want to speak to the captain for a few minutes. Is he at home?”
Timothy Fletcher lowered his staring eyes for an instant, then raised them again, blinking owlishly. The glint in their depths brightened, and took on sharper edges.
”What d'ye want to speak to him about?” he asked suspiciously.
”I'll tell that to your master,” replied Mr. Banks blandly.
”He ain't at home.”
”Not at home? Guess again, my good man.”
”I tell ye, he ain't at home!”
”Not so fast,” said the sportsman coolly, and with astonis.h.i.+ng swiftness he advanced his heavily booted right foot, and thrust it across the threshold. The door nipped it instantly.
”It is not polite to slam doors in the faces of your master's friends,”
he said.
Then he threw all his weight against the door, flinging it wide open and hurling Timothy Fletcher against the wall.
”I don't like your manners,” he said. ”I intend to keep my eye on you. I give you fair warning, Timothy Fletcher.”
The old fellow stood against the wall, breathing heavily, but in no wise abashed. He grinned sardonically.
”Warning?” he gasped. ”Ye warn _me_! Chuck it!”
Mr. Banks halted and gazed at him, noting the narrow, heaving chest and gray face.
”I hope I have not hurt you. I opened the door a trifle more violently than I intended,” he said.
Fletcher did not answer. Banks glanced up the stairs and beheld Captain Wigmore standing at the top and smiling down at him. He turned sharply to the servant. ”There!” he whispered. ”Just as I suspected! You were lying.”
The old fellow twisted his gray face savagely. That was his only answer.
Timothy retired to the back of the house as Captain Wigmore descended the stairs. The captain was in fine spirits. He clasped his visitor's hand and patted his shoulder.
”Come into my den,” he cried. ”What'll you have? Tea, whisky, sherry?
Give it a name, my boy.”
”A drop of Scotch, if you have it handy,” replied the caller. ”But I came over just for a moment, captain, to see if you can join us to-night in a little game of poker.”
”Delighted! Nothing I'd like better. We've been dull as ditch water lately,” answered the captain, as he placed a gla.s.s and decanter before his visitor. ”Just a moment,” he added. ”There is no water--and there is no bell in this room. Timothy has a strong objection to bells.”
Wigmore left the room, returning in a minute with a jug of water. He closed the door behind him.
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