Читать книгу The Doomington Wanderer - Louis Golding - Страница 17

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There was another black visitor that night at the Golden Lion—Bill Richmond, of course. He had waited two hours, three hours, for his partner to return. In four hours he went after him.

There had naturally been no show. It broke Bill’s heart to turn so much good money away. But no Tom Molyneux, no show. He had to give the Winfold Butcher a piece of his mind, for the young gentleman had taken it into his head that Tom Molyneux had heard what a tough customer he was, and had scuttled. But there had been no money in it. It happened on the meadow in front of the booth, and it was soon over—in less than one round.

Bill Richmond turned up at the Golden Lion soon after midnight. It was hard luck on the old people there. They had had enough of black men for one day.

There was no withstanding this one, either. “Take me up to his room at once—do you hear?—or I’ll smash every bottle in the place!”

So they took him up, and tiptoed back to their bed, trembling in every limb.

The argument between the two black men went on for a good hour. It wasn’t quite an argument. It was a series of speeches, appeals, rhetorical questions from Bill, punctuated with a very occasional “No!” or “Get out!” from Tom. There was finally a “Get out!” louder than any that had gone before—one that almost lifted the door from its beams. It was like the peal of a wild elephant. “Get out, or, by God——!”

Bill Richmond got out. He stormed downstairs, flung back the door with the noise of a bough cracking, and threw himself into the darkness.

He was a little, but not much, calmer when morning came round. “He’d best have his head for a few days,” he muttered savagely. “Perhaps I’m lucky. It might have happened before, and more than once. Well, there’s nothing to do but wait, blast him! The black tub of hogwash! Blast his eyes!”