He buried his nose in the tankard. But he drank little in it, carrying it to the stout oak table near the fire. The gaffers testified afterwards, that Uncle's talk, before Saint came in, was even more genial and easy than usual. And Saint's face, when he appeared, was in marked contrast to Uncle's rubicund cheerful countenance. Obviously Saint was out of temper. He had been cited to appear before the local tribunal again, and exemption might not be granted twice. "Comb-out" articles were appearing in the daily press. And Saint, who tapped private sources of information, was well aware that Captain Davenant, Chairman of the Board, had expressed a strong opinion that Saint, a Class A fellow, b'George! ought to be kicked into the ranks. Saint had just begun to realise, also, that he was hoist with his own petard. Alfred Yellam, as carrier, set a precedent, shewing that carriers could find less able-bodied men to transact necessary local business. Uncle looked hard at him. "What's wrong, Saint Willum?" he asked, in the drawling tone that always provoked a cackle from the gaffers. Saint looked hard at Uncle. He had good reason for knowing that Uncle saw eye to eye with the Captain. Before entering the bar, the landlord of the _Sir John Barleycorn_ had drunk some whisky from a bottle which he kept locked up in his bedroom. In a word, he was ripe for a quarrel. "What's wrong?" he repeated viciously. "You are. I'm fed up with your insolence. You take yourself off to the _Pomfret Arms_. The landlord there may want your money and your sauce. I've had enough of both." The young woman smiled. If, as she expected, and not without good reason, William Saint became her husband, he might turn out, with discreet handling, a docile helpmeet. Within twenty-four hours, she had urged him to "out" Habakkuk Mucklow at the first opportunity. Saint had hesitated, observing angrily that he detested Uncle, and would gladly attend his funeral. At the same time, the man brought custom to the tavern. If he left it, some of his cronies might leave with him. Whereupon the young woman remarked scornfully: "If you can stick it, I've nothing more to say." And then she had eyed him slowly from heel to head, as if taking stock of an animal not quite sound. Saint knew that his manhood had been challenged by a woman who was becoming indispensable to him. Uncle rose, tankard in hand. His smile was so disarming that Saint, probably, believed him to be harmless. Accordingly he scowled the more fiercely as Uncle slowly approached him. An expert of the prize ring, comparing the two men physically, would have said, off-hand, that age could never fight youth on equal terms. Saint was stoutly built, heavy in the shoulder, with good underpinning. He may have lacked two inches of Uncle's height. Uncle feigned nervousness, luring Saint on. Had the landlord been perfectly sober, he might have suspected guile. Whisky had inflamed his mind and paralysed his judgment.