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| The black-eyed man watches every step that Jack takes towards his table, and when there’s only a matter of yards between ‘em he flicks a hand at his companions; they just up and melt away, without a sound, till it’s only him and Jack left. This, Jack thinks, is either a sign that he’s supremely confident, or supremely stupid. After the looks this fellow’s been throwing Jack’s way, he’d surely be within his Manly Rights to be throwing a punch or two on arrival. He comes to a halt in front of the settle, and finds he’s made it this far without having any idea what to say. When Jack finds himself in this situation, he knows there’s one sweet and simple solution to the problem: one must simply place the ball firmly in the other party’s court. So: “Well?” says Jack, mostly belligerently, and waits. The stranger looks him up and down, yet again, and tips his head to the side. Close up, he’s disturbingly attractive, for all his idiosyncrasies. It’s possible that he’s dangerous; it’s also possible, given his appearance, that he’s mad as a teapot. It is not possible, however, that he’s boring. “I know you,” he says, suddenly. “I’ve seen your face before.” “No you haven’t.” Jack can say this with the utmost confidence. He would not forget a creature like this one in a hurry. “Oh, I think I have. I’ll place you in a minute. Meanwhile, as the mental cogs are turning—” “Well-oiled, are they?” says Jack, with a sarcastic glance at the bottle-strewn tabletop, and the man stops, and grins. He has a lot of gold teeth. “Quite. While my well-oiled cogs are cogitating, won’t you join me in a drink?” Is Jack feeling sociable? Or nervous? |
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