With a dramatic swing of the folds of his gown over one shoulder, he became a toga-clad senator. Better still—a blue-eyed, fair-haired authority figure with a short back-and-sides. Trustworthy. If he’d stuck out a finger and barked, “Your country needs you!” they would have formed an orderly queue to sign up. Instead of the hoots and catcalls he’d feared, the crowd fell silent and attentive.

For a shameful moment, the thrill of exercising a dark power had him in its grip. He knew that, impressed by a commanding presence and oratorical skills, a mischief-seeking rabble could be roused to the point of stringing either of these idiots up from the nearest lamppost.

Rupert didn’t hesitate.

“You!” he announced, pointing a headmasterly finger at Aunty, “You, my man, have just received the trouncing you deserved! A disgraceful display, sir! You set a poor example for the youth of the town.”

The youth of the town concurred. “Yer! We saw ya!”

“Knocking six bells out of a poor old bummer!”

“Bullyraggin’ an old man! Shame on yer!”

Ale-drinkers to a man, Rupert decided—they would have no truck with Aunty’s expensive refreshments. The man appeared, indeed, to be already an unpopular figure with the crowd. Rupert had backed the winner. Before it occurred to anyone to demand further and better retribution involving ropes and lampposts, he spoke again to the still-speechless loser. “Now go back inside and make your apologies to your customers. Miss! Step forward!” A waitress who had crept close, wide-eyed with dismay and excitement, obeyed his beckoning gesture and helped her boss back indoors.

“Storm in a teacup, eh?” Rupert shared a joke with the crowd and allowed a judicious pause for the laughter to roll away. “You can all move on now. The tavern’s that way!” A black-sleeved arm extended to indicate the way to the nearest pub. To the lingerers, he added, “I shall remain. Be assured, I shall present myself as a witness to this, er, contretemps, should a witness for something so trivial be required. That will be all. Thank you for your concern.”

The last bystanders ambled away, tut-tutting or laughing. Rupert turned his attention to the tramp, who was now clowning about in the fashion of Charlie Chaplin, doing a surprisingly nimble boxer’s victory dance around an imaginary ring. A fit of coughing brought that to a halt and he took to doffing his cap and giving a doddering salute to the ones who were pausing to drop pennies at his feet. He made no move to pick up the coins or hurry away.

Search over. Rupert had found his man.

“Good left jab! Where did you learn that? Military man, are you?”

“I’ve a matching right one! Want to sample it?” His eyes flashed with the pathetic challenge of a cornered mongrel.

“Sir! I asked a polite question.”