Part 21 (1/2)

After Mike had waited for a few minutes there was a rattling of chains and a shooting of bolts and the door opened.

”Yes, sir?” said the boots, appearing in his s.h.i.+rt sleeves. ”Why, 'ello!

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 labors 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.

”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 openmouthed 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. Then he collapsed into a chair, which creaked under him, and wiped his eyes.

”Oh dear!” he said, ”Oh dear! The five pounds!”

Mike was not always abreast of the rustic idea of humor, and now he felt particularly fogged. For the life of him he could not see what there was to amuse anyone so much in the fact that a person who owed five pounds was ready to pay it back. It was an occasion for rejoicing, perhaps, but rather for a solemn, thankful, eyes-raised-to-heaven kind of rejoicing.

”What's up?” he asked.

”Five pounds!”

”You might tell us the joke.”

Mr. Barley opened the letter, read it, and had another attack; when this was finished he handed the letter to Mike, who was waiting patiently by, hoping for light, and requested him to read it.

”Dear, dear!” chuckled Mr. Barley, ”five pounds! They may teach you young gentlemen to talk Latin and Greek and what-not at your school, but it 'ud do a lot more good if they'd teach you how many beans make five; it 'ud do a lot more good if they'd teach you to come in when it rained; it 'ud do ...”