“You may give any dam reason you please to yourself,” said Nicky-Nan uncompromisingly, “so long as you don’t start palmin’ it ’pon me.  I paid Hendy the costs o’ the order this morning—­which is not to say that I promise ’ee to act on it.  Whatever your reason may be, the point is you don’t propose turnin’ me out till further notice—­hey?”

“Provided your rent is duly paid up to date.”

“Right.”  Nicky-Nan slid a hand into his trouser-pocket, where his fingers met the reassuring touch of half-a-dozen sovereigns he carried there for earnest of his good fortune.

“And on the understanding that I claim possession whenever it suits me.  When I say ‘the understanding,’ of course, there’s no bargain implied.  I am in a position to do as I like at any time.  I want to make that clear.”

“Very thoughtful of you.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re grateful.”

“Who said so?”

“At least,” answered Mr Pamphlett with rising choler, “you must own that I have shown you great consideration—­great consideration and forbearance.”  He checked his wrath, being a man who had severely trained himself to keep his temper in any discussion touching business.  To the observance of this simple rule, indeed, he owed half his success in life. (During the operation of getting the better of a fellow-man, it was wellnigh impossible to ruffle Mr Pamphlett.) “I’ll leave you to think it over.”

“Thank ’ee,” said Nicky-Nan as the banker walked away; and sat on in the August sunshine, the potable gold of which harmonised with the tangible gold in his pockets, but so that he, being able to pay the piper, felt himself in command of the tune.  He had ballasted both pockets with coins.  It gave him a wonderful sense of stability, on the strength of which he had been able to talk with Mr Pamphlett as one man should with another.  And lo! he had prevailed.  Obedient to some subtle sense, Pamphlett had lowered his usual domineering tone, and was climbing down under the bluff he yet maintained. . . .  Nicky-Nan was not grateful:  but already he felt inclined to make allowance for the fellow.  What a mastery money gave!

A voice hailed him from the doorway of the Three Pilchards.

“Mornin’, Nicky!”

Nicky-Nan slewed himself about on the bollard, and encountered the genial gaze of Mr Latter, the landlord.  Mr Latter, a retired Petty Officer of the Navy, stood six feet two inches in his socks, and carried a stomach which incommoded even that unusual stature.  The entrance-door of the Three Pilchards being constructed in two flaps, Mr Latter habitually closed the lower one and eased the upper part of his facade upon it while he surveyed the world.

“Mornin’, Nicky!” repeated Mr Latter.  “I han’t seen ye this couple o’ days; but I had word you weren’t gone with the rest, your leg bein’ so bad.  Step indoors, an’ rest it over a drink.”