The three had agreed to meet at six o’clock for supper at the Oxbow, but when the hands of the wall clock pointed to six-fifteen, McMullen said, “Enough is enough. Time, tide, and Joe McMullen wait for no man. I’m ordering.”It’s now nearly seven-fifteen and McMullen is looking forward to a night of frolic. This afternoon he paid a visit to the Tonsorial Palace and still smells powerfully of bay rum; his freshly shorn temples gleam white, and the moustache he had had the barber wax into a set of bristling whiskers twitches and vibrates as he chews his pork chop. “Most likely the pup’s piddling on that girl’s door post, marking his territory,” Joe observes to Case.“Perhaps. He feels that territory under threat. The visit he paid her he found a rival in the parlour, and beat a hasty retreat. Yesterday, the young lady’s mother told him the object of his affections could not receive visitors because she was resting her voice. Peregrine took that as a flimsy excuse, a sign Miss Tarr didn’t want to see him.
