He turned toward the broad aperture which served as a passageway in
the wall for drinks leaving the hands of a fat bartender beyond to
fall into the clutches of thirsty customers in the tap-room. There was
no outstanding bar. A time-polished shelf, as old as the house itself,
provided the afore-said bartender with a place on which to spread his
elbows while not actively engaged in advancing mugs and bottles from
more remote resting-places at his back.

"Everything comes through 'the hole in the wall,'" explained
Rushcroft, wrinkling his face into a smile.

He unceremoniously turned his back on the audience of a moment before,
and pounded smartly on the shelf, notwithstanding the fact that the
bartender was less than a yard away and facing him expectantly. "What
ho! Give ear, professor. Ye gods, what a night! Devil-brewed
pandemonium--I beg pardon?"

"I was just about to ask what you will have," said Barnes, lining up
beside him with Mr. Dillingford.

Mr. Rushcroft drew himself up once more. "My dear fellow, I asked you
to have a--"

"But I had already invited Dillingford. You must allow me to extend
the invitation--"

"Say no more, sir. I understand perfectly. A flagon of ale, Bob, for
me." He leaned closer to Barnes and said, in what was supposed to be a
confidential aside: "Don't tackle the whiskey. It would kill a
rattlesnake."