Where with a
private house you would probably have to wander around heaving rocks and
end by climbing up a waterspout, when you want to get into an inn you
simply ring the night bell, which, communicating with the boots' room,
has that hard-worked menial up and doing in no time.
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 shirt 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.
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