Uncle Jim was certainly not a handsome person. He was short, shorter than Mr. Polly, with long arms and lean big hands, a thin and wiry neck stuck out of his grey flannel shirt and supported a big head that had something of the snake in the convergent lines of its broad knotty brow, meanly proportioned face and pointed chin. His almost toothless mouth seemed a cavern in the twilight. Some accident had left him with one small and active and one large and expressionless reddish eye, and wisps of straight hair strayed from under the blue cricket cap he wore pulled down obliquely over the latter. He spat between his teeth and wiped his mouth untidily with the soft side of his fist. "You got to blurry well shift," he said. "See?" "Shift!" said Mr. Polly. "How?" "'Cos the Potwell Inn's _my_ beat. See?" Mr. Polly had never felt less witty. "How's it your beat?" he asked. Uncle Jim thrust his face forward and shook his open hand, bent like a claw, under Mr. Polly's nose. "Not your blooming business," he said. "You got to shift." "S'pose I don't," said Mr. Polly. "You got to shift." The tone of Uncle Jim's voice became urgent and confidential. "You don't know who you're up against," he said. "It's a kindness I'm doing to warn you. See? I'm just one of those blokes who don't stick at things, see? I don't stick at nuffin'." Mr. Polly's manner became detached and confidential--as though the matter and the speaker interested him greatly, but didn't concern him over-much. "What do you think you'll do?" he asked. "If you don't clear out?" "Yes." "_Gaw!_" said Uncle Jim. "You'd better. '_Ere!_" He gripped Mr. Polly's wrist with a grip of steel, and in an instant Mr. Polly understood the relative quality of their muscles. He breathed, an uninspiring breath, into Mr. Polly's face. "What _won't_ I do?" he said. "Once I start in on you." He paused, and the night about them seemed to be listening. "I'll make a mess of you," he said in his hoarse whisper. "I'll do you--injuries. I'll 'urt you. I'll kick you ugly, see? I'll 'urt you in 'orrible ways--'orrible, ugly ways...." He scrutinised Mr. Polly's face. "You'll cry," he said, "to see yourself. See? Cry you will." "You got no right," began Mr. Polly. "Right!" His note was fierce. "Ain't the old woman me aunt?" He spoke still closer. "I'll make a gory mess of you. I'll cut bits orf you--" He receded a little. "I got no quarrel with _you_," he said. "It's too late to go to-night," said Mr. Polly. "I'll be round to-morrer--'bout eleven. See? And if I finds you--" He produced a blood-curdling oath. "H'm," said Mr. Polly, trying to keep things light. "We'll consider your suggestions." "You better," said Uncle Jim, and suddenly, noiselessly, was going.