Clay's
behaviour. Daniel certainly had; the brothers agreed that she must
have been drinking rather more than was good for her.
'I shouldn't wonder,' said Daniel, 'if she started with the whole o'
the money.'
Which, indeed, was a true conjecture.
Time went on, and Daniel had been six months a licensed victualler.
It was summer once more, and thirsty weather. Daniel stood behind
the bar in his shirt sleeves, collarless for personal ease, with a
white waistcoat, and trousers of light tweed. Across his stomach,
which already was more portly than in his engineering days, swayed a
heavy gold chain; on one of his fingers was a demonstrative ring.
His face and neck were very red; his hair, cropped extremely short,
gleamed with odorous oils. You could see that he prided himself on
the spotlessness of his linen; his cuffs were turned up to avoid
alcoholic soilure; their vast links hung loose for better observance
by customers. Daniel was a smiling and a happy man.
It was early on Sunday evening; Hoxton had shaken itself from the
afternoon slumber, had taken a moderate tea, and was in no two minds
about the entirely agreeable way of getting through the hours till
bedtime. Daniel beamed on the good thirsty souls who sought refuge
under his roof from the still warm rays of the sun.
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