Then he handed the money-lender a thick venison sandwich, cut while he
had been writing.
The tears ran down Mr. Lambert's face as his furious jaws bit into it.
"Don't wolf it!" said Tinker sternly. "Starving men should feed
slowly."
Mr. Lambert had no restraint; he did wolf it. Then he asked for more.
"In a quarter of an hour," said Tinker, and he gave him nothing sooner
for all his clamorous entreaties.
After a second sandwich the money-lender was another man, and Tinker,
seeing that he was not ill, said, "I must be going; I have a long ride
to post this letter"; and he began to hand in the rest of the food
through the window.
"Be careful not to eat it all up at once," he said. "It's got to last
you till to-morrow."
"What's this! What's this!" cried Mr. Lambert. "You promised to
release me when you got the letter!"
"When I get the promissory note, or when my father's solicitor gets it.
I've told him to wire."
The money-lender snarled like a dog; his brilliant idea had proved of
no good. He stormed and stormed; Tinker was cheerful, but indifferent.
He thrust a rug he had brought with him through the window, summoned
his phantom band, and rode away.
Mr. Lambert spent a gloomy, but, thanks to the soothing of his stomach,
a not uncomfortable day.
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