"Give me the rest, you almond eyed lubber," cried Peckle with sudden energy; "we'll return to business, for I'll be hanged if I'm going to let myself be beaten by the bo'sun tight and the midshipmite of a bottle-nosed, unseaworthy Chinese contraband."
Maloney knocked the ash off his cigar on his chair-arm and said, by way of explanation, "Our friend Peckle, gentlemen, chowed last night at Government House. He hasn't sloughed his company manners yet."
Benwell sent the red whizzing up the table into the top pocket, potted his opponent into the right-hand middle, by way of revenge, and then gave the customary miss in baulk.
"A Whitechapel game and be hanged to you," said Peckle contemptuously. "I'll bet you a dollar I Hullo! who's this? Poddy, by all that's human! Watchman, what of the night? Why this indecent haste?"
The newcomer was a short podgy man, with a clean-shaven red face, white teeth, very prominent eyes, large cars, and almost marmalade-coloured hair. He was in a profuse perspiration, and so much out of breath that for quite two minutes he was unable to answer their salutations.
"Poddy is suffering from a bad attack of suppressed information," said Benwell, who had been examining him critically. "Better prescribe for him, De Normanville. Ah, I forgot, you don't know one another. Let me introduce you—Mr. Horace Venderbrun, Dr. De Normanville. Now you're acquent, as they say in the farces."
"Out with it, Poddy," continued Peckle, digging him
