"Friend?" said Sharkley nervously; "he ain't a friend of mine--only a kind of client in a humble way." "I wouldn't have given such, house-room; but trade is bad--the coaches are all off the road now, and business be all taken by the rail to Launceston, Bodmin, and elsewhere." "Has he been drinking?" "Yes." "Pretty freely?" asked Sharpley hopefully. "Well--yes; we're licensed to get drunk on the premises." "Come," thought the emissary, "this is encouraging! His intellect," he added aloud, "is weak; after a time he grows furious and is apt to accuse people of robbing him, especially of certain papers of which he imagines himself the custodian; it is quite a monomania." "A what, sur?" "A monomania." "I hopes as he don't bite; but any way," said the landlord, who had vague ideas of hydrophobia, "I had better turn him out at once, as I want no bobberies here." "No--no; that would be precipitate. I shall try to soothe him over; besides, I have express business with him to-night." "But if he won't be soothed?" asked Boniface, anxiously. "Then you have the police station at hand." Meanwhile they could hear Derrick above them, drumming on the bare table with a pint-pot, and singing some barrack-room ditty of which the elegant refrain was always,-- "Stick to the colour, boys, while there's a rag on it, And tickle them behind with a touch of the bagonet: So, love, farewell, for _all_ for a-marching!" As Sharkley entered, it was evident that the old soldier, whose voice rose at times into a shrill, discordant, and hideous falsetto, had been imbibing pretty freely; his weather-beaten face was flushed, his eyes watery, and his voice somewhat husky, but he was in excellent humour with himself and all the world. The visitor's sharp eyes took in the whole details of the little room occupied by his victim; a small window, which he knew to be twelve feet from a flower-bed outside; a bed in a corner; two Windsor chairs, a table and wash-stand, all of the most humble construction; these, with Derrick's tiny carpet-bag and walking staff, comprised its furniture. "Come along, Master Sharkley--glad to see you--glad to see any one--it's dreary work drinking alone. This is my billet, and there is a shot in the locker yet--help yourself," he added, pushing a large three-handled tankard of ale across the table. "Thank you, Braddon," replied the other, careful to omit the prefix of "Mr.," which Derrick always resented, "and you must share mine with me. Have you heard the news?" "From where--India?" "Yes." "And what are they that I have not heard--tell me that, Mr. Sharkley--what are they that I have not heard?" said Braddon with the angry emphasis assumed at times unnecessarily by the inebriated. "Is it that your young master is shut up among the Afghans, and likely, I fear, to remain so?"