"Ye ain't got a lot of weight to pull..." Harry quipped, eying her again in that disgusting manner. He did not really follow what North was saying, but enough to realize that the lady needed someone to look after her. Well here he was! "No worries, ser. I'll keep an eye on t' socialist!" He put an arm around her shoulders. "Ye'r safe with me, lass." His breath smelled of beer.

"That is true," she said with a chuckle. "I admit it." She was about to thank Quentin for letting her join, but the drunken man was now talking and putting his hands on her. She made a most comical face at the smell of the man's rancid breath, and she ducked free of his arm. "You will not touch me, sir," she said with a warning glint in her eyes. She was about to punch the man in his gut if he did not comply. Then she looked at Quentin and said, "My name is Claire Devereaux, and this is an opportunity I've been looking for. Thank you."

The young lady handles the older man's unwanted familiarity well. However, it was not the sort of thing that Quentin was want to let pass without comment. "Mister Longbottom." He says his voice having the snap of a military commander. "You will reframe from touching anyone in such a familiar fashion without permission while you are under my employ. I would also, strongly, recommend you not do so again in my presence unless you wish to see which of us is better with his fists." Which, considering the difference in age, stature, and health between the two was not something that Harry would likely be keen on.

[[Content warning: sexism and justifying sexual harassment and that sort of disgusting]]

Harry looked from Claire to Quentin, a little puzzled and offended. He finally hissed quietly to show his disapproval. "Was just tryin' to be nice to t' lady, since she'll need some protection," he said in a rather injured voice. "Did not mean to scare her, but if she does not like to get familiar with men, maybe she shouldn't step into men's territory."

She bristled, her dark eyes narrowing with immediate dislike. "Sir, I promise that I can throw a punch like a man, but I would prefer not to have to. If I wanted or needed help, I would say as much. Until then, keep your hands to yourself--" and your horrible, disgusting, putrid breath, she added silently. She might have been slight, but she lifted her chin and stood a little taller, and then gave that glare that a woman perfects that a man should reconsider approaching said woman. "Now, if you will excuse me, darlin'," she used the nickname in frosty sarcasm, "I came to do business."

Henry's attitude was distressingly common in Quentin's opinion. If he only dealt with men who were capable of a level of respect for everyone then he would not deal with very many people at all. Which meant that for the moment the big man would allow Henry's attitude to slide. Since Claire seemed inclined to handle him herself, he would let that be the case for now. Though he suspected that before this was all said and done he would lay Henry out. If for no other reason than his own satisfaction.

Still, perhaps there was something to be said for it. After all, if Quentin had been disinclined to indulge Claire before he was now more willing to bow to her demand, if for no other reason than to make up for what was aborhent behaviour. "Mister Longbottom, in my experience protection doesn't typically require touching the other person in a way that clearly disgusts them. Additionally, this bar is a public place so it is hardly men's territory. If you are hoping to join this particular venture then I would suggest you start acting as though you are at church and your wife is watching you. That may get you to a bare minimum level of appropriate behaviour that I expect from people under my employ."

Harry looked at the speaking woman with a peevish wrinkle of the nose. But he held his tongue, because he knew he had been defeated. He turned to Quentin and resolved to ignore this stuck up lady. She's not even that pretty, he thought sullenly.

"Not likely," he muttered under his breath, when the man suggested pretending he was at church with his wife watching. They never went to church. Perhaps they had baptised the first. He couldn't remember. But he didn't think they had bothered with the rest. And as for his wife watching, when had that stopped him from anything before? The ugly, drunk cow.

He had half a mind to walk out of there. But he hadn't finished his beer, and at the moment he wasn't sure he could find the door anyway. So he held up his hands defensively. "I told ye, I didn't mean owt by it." He cursed. "But fine, I'll ignore the lady, just as she likes." He picked up his beer. "What do you pay, anyway?"

When the man was no longer looking at her, she gave a shudder of distaste, but she didn't say anything more to the man because there was no need to. He was as disgusting as they made them, it seemed to her. She'd rather face a gator in the bayou before letting the Letcher touch her again. The young woman turned her gaze toward Quentin and relaxed, her expression now neutral because she was neither amused, nor upset anymore. She fully intended to do her part, being a hands on sort. She wasn't just a bored socialite, she liked a good thrill and was willing to work for it. Her parents loathed her choices, telling her she should have married by now and what not. Who needed marriage when there was a whole world to explore?

She then turned her attention to the map on the table, she tilted her head to study it.

The man clearly did not enjoy being talked down to. Which meant that Mister Harry Longbottom was not the type to correct his own behaviour. This rather sours Quentin's mood but if the man knew the area then he would simply have to swallow his bile and deal with it. Barring the chance that someone with equal knowledge and a more pleasant disposition arrived.

"Your pay will be a pound and a half per day. You will also receive one share of the sale of any treasure recovered, a share being one percent. Additional shares will be rewarded at the end of the expedition based on merit at my discretion."

The way Quentin said discretion made it abundantly clear that he would withhold awarding additional shares if Harry continued to act like a horse's ass. Which was to say, letting shit fall freely from his mouth.

One percent was a lot, right? Anyway, a pound and a half was. More than he earned in a week with his shoddy business, and more than the children brought home. "Deal," he said.