Captain Daedalus Forge stood silhouetted in the doorway, and, whilst shaking the rain from his oil-cloth duster, surreptitiously surveyed the room: two comatose drunks (one recumbent, on the floor; the second wedged onto a stool, and half draped across the bar); two 'engineer-looking' chaps (one constantly fidgeting with something in his pocket [keep an eye on him]; the second oozing the cool confident air of an American); a fifth man apparently badgering the landlord about building a stage and booking The Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing; and two more chaps sitting by the fire, engaged in quiet conversation: one patting the head of a dog, the second with his back to the door, and only the top of his head, showing a shock of wild, curly hair, showing above his wing-back chair.
Forge pulled of his gloves, removed the pith helmet from his head, stuffed the gloves inside the helmet, and stepping over the drunk on the floor, approached the bar.
"Large brandy and a pint of Bitter, please Landlord", he said, whilst pushing the second drunk sideways off the barstool, and taking his place.
From the bar, he was able to see the face of the man in the wing-back chair. "Good lord!", he almost uttered aloud, "Tiberius Pratt!".....