“Every man’s for himself,” he went on, with a hint of impatience in his tone, for the frosty air of the bar-parlour was beginning to tell on him; “but lame dogs have to pretend that they don’t like rabbits. Stuff and nonsense! A man who isn’t for himself deserves to go under and it’s a kindness to help him.”
He leaned back defiantly; but there was still no reply. Swithin pushed back his chair and pulled forward his hat. “I’ll be saying ‘good-night’ neighbours,” he said, “I’ll have to be stirring i’ good time i’ t’ morning,” and several others rose and left the room with him. Ten minutes later the rest had emptied their mugs and gone, and Inman was left with old Ambrose and the innkeeper. There was a scowl upon the latter’s face that caused the young man to say with a laugh:
“Come, come, landlord, the loss of a handful of coppers won’t bank you. Mix yourself and me a whisky apiece and keep grandad’s pot filled. There’s room for three round that fire—pull a chair up to it and bid dull care begone.”
He crossed over himself and sat down comfortably with his legs stretched out on the hearth. Ambrose occupied the corner seat, and the landlord, whose brow had cleared as he perceived that the defection of his regular customers was not likely to impoverish his till, seated himself at the opposite end.
“A bit touchy, these neighbours of ours,” Inman suggested with a laugh. “Don’t exactly hold out the right hand of fellowship, d’you think? But I’m a moorman myself, though I’ve been a renegade the last ten years, and I know their feelings for ‘offcomeduns,’ as we called newcomers in my part of the world.”
“And what part might that ha’ been?” inquired the landlord.
“Worth way,” he answered shortly. “There’s surly dogs bred in Worth Valley, I can tell you—dogs with a snap in their teeth; dogs that like to be _top_ dog and intend to be.”
It was said meaningly, though it was accompanied by another laugh, and the landlord eyed him thoughtfully.
“This man, Jagger; what sort of a fellow is he?” Inman went on. “Not one of your best customers, I reckon?”
“He never tastes,” the landlord replied, “unless its a ginger-ale or summat o’ that sort now and again. It isn’t oft he darkens this door, but his father, Maniwel’ll come and sit for an hour now and then, though he puts naught much i’ my pocket. All t’ same”—the landlord’s clan loyalty triumphing over the narrower emotion of self-interest—“they’re nayther of ’em a bad sort; nayther Maniwel nor Jagger.”