He had a small heap of oddments on
his left, and a silk handkerchief in his right hand. His game was,
he picked out an oddment from the heap, polished it, fitted it more
or less into the silly puzzle, and stepped back to eye it. He looked
up, annoyed-like, as if we were breaking in on a delicate experiment.
"Drop that, Foe!" Sir Elkin commanded, sharp and harsh, but with a
human tremble in his voice. His nails clawed into my arm. "It's his
dog," he whispered me, "or what's left. The poor brute held the
door, they say . . . sprang at their throats right and left . . .
till someone brained him and they threw his carcass into the
fire. . . . Drop it, Foe--that's a good fellow!"
Jack stayed himself, stared at us dully, and put down the
handkerchief after dusting the bench with it.
"Is that you, you fellows?" he asked, with a smile playing about his
mouth and twisting it. "Good of you, Roddy--though almost too late
for the fun! Jimmy, too? . . . They've made a bit of a mess here,
eh? . . . Ah, and there's Mr. Farrell! Will somebody introduce Mr.
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