A sort of blight it would seem had descended upon humanity
in Upper Crossleys. It was all very curious.
Reflecting upon the matter, and sometimes interjecting a word or two
into the purely technical and very desultory conversation proceeding
between the landlord and Hawkins, I sat looking from one to the other,
more than ever convinced that no friendship was lost between them. My
position in the room was such that any one entering would not detect
my presence until he was right up to the bar, and to this sheltered
seat I was undoubtedly indebted for a very strange experience.
During a lull in the patently forced conversation I heard footsteps
upon the cobbles outside. Hawkins and the landlord exchanged a swift
glance, and then to my surprise they both stared at me questioningly.
Before a word could be exchanged, however, and before I had time even
to surmise what this covert uneasiness might portend, a young fellow
entered whose carriage and dress immediately attracted my attention.
He was attired, then, in a sort of burlesque "fashionable" lounge suit
and wore a straw hat set rakishly backward on his well-oiled dark
hair. He carried gloves and a malacca cane, and his gait was one of
assured superiority. He was a stoutly-built, muscular young fellow and
might ordinarily have been good-looking after a rustic fashion, but
what principally rendered him noticeable was the fact that he wore
surgical bandages around his neck in lieu of a collar and that his
face was literally a mosaic of sticking-plaster!
"Evening, Martin--evening, Hawkins," he said jauntily; and advancing
to the bar, "The usual, Martin.
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