"Not the sort you mean. Country folk. It's the usual thing when strangers come an' settle in a place o' this size. . . . But, all the same, a hundred an' twelve pound, fourteen and six is a heap: an' as I say, we got to think over bankin' it. A man feels solid settin' here with money under his belt; an' yet between you an' me I wouldn't mind if it was less so, in a manner o' speakin'." "Me, either." "I was wonderin' what it would feel like to wake in the night an' tell yourself that someone was rollin' up money for you like a snowball." "There might be a certain amount of friskiness in that. But contrariwise, if you waked an' told yourself the fella was runnin' off with it, there wuldn'." "Shore-living folks takes that risk an' grows accustomed to it. W'y look at the fellow in charge o' this house." "Where?" asked Mr. Adams nervously. "The landlord-fellow, I mean, up in the village. His daughter said he went to sleep every afternoon, an' wouldn' be waked. How could a man afford to do that if his money wasn' rollin' up somewhere for him? An' the place fairly lined with barrels o' good liquor." "Mightn't liquor accumylate in the same way?" asked Mr. Adams, with sudden and lively interest. "No, you nincom'," began Mr. Jope--when a loud knocking on the outer door interrupted him. "Hallo!" he sank his voice. "Callers already!" He went to the door, unlocked and opened it. A heavy-shouldered, bull-necked man stood outside in the dusk. "Good evenin'." "Evenin'," said the stranger. "My name is Coyne an' you must get out o' this." "I don't see as it follows," answered Mr. Jope meditatively. "But hadn't you better step inside?" "I don't want to bandy words--" began the publican, entering as though he shouldered his way. "That's right! Bill, fetch an' fill a glass for the gentleman." "No, thank you. . . . Well, since you have it handy. But look here: I got nothin' particular to say against you two men, only you can't stop here to-night. That's straight enough, I hope, and no bones broken." "Straight it is," Mr. Jope agreed: "and we'll talk o' the bones by an' by. Wot name, sir?--makin' so bold." "My name's Coyne." "An' mine's Cash." Mr. Jope fumbled with the fastening of a pouch underneath his broad waistbelt. "So we're well met. How much?" "Eh?" "How much? Accordin' to your darter 'twas forty pound a year, an' money down: but whether monthly or quarterly she didn' say." "It's no question of money. It's a question of you two clearin' out, and at once. I'm breakin' what I have to say as gently as I can. If you don't choose to understand plain language, I must go an' fetch the constable." "I seen him, up at the village this afternoon, an' you'd better not. Bill, why can't ye fill the gentleman's glass?" "Because the jug's empty," answered Mr. Adams. "Then slip down to the cellar again."