THE EXIT OF BATTLING BILLSON
The Theatre Royal, Llunindnno, is in the middle of the of that town, and opposite its main entrance there is a lamp-post. Under this lamp-post, as I approached, a man was standing. He was a large man, and his air was that of one who has passed through some trying experience. There was on his person, and he had his hat. At the of my he turned, and the of the lamp the familiar of my old friend Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge.
“Great Scot!” I ejaculated. “What are you doing here?”
There was no possibility of hallucination. It was the man himself in the flesh. And what Ukridge, a free agent, be doing in Llunindnno was more than I imagine. Situated, as its name implies, in Wales, it is a dark, dingy, spot, by and men with and three-day beards; and to me, after a minutes’ in the place, it was that anyone should be there on compulsion.
Ukridge at me incredulously.
“Corky, old horse!” he said, “this is, upon my Sam, without the most event in the world’s history. The last I to see.”
“Same here. Is anything the matter?” I asked, his appearance.
“Matter? I should say something was the matter!” Ukridge, way to indignation. “They me out!”
“Chucked you out? Who? Where from?”
“This theatre, laddie. After taking my good money, it! At least, I got it on my face, but that has nothing to do with the of the thing. Corky, my boy, don’t you go about this world for justice, there’s no such thing under the of heaven. I had just gone out for a after the act, and when I came I some in shape had my seat. And just I to the out by the ears, a dozen and me out. Me, I’ll trouble you! The party! Upon my Sam,” he said, heatedly, with a look at the closed door, “I’ve a good mind to——”
“I shouldn’t,” I said, soothingly. “After all, what it matter? It’s just one of those that are to from time to time. The man of them off with a light laugh.”
“Yes, but——”
“Come and have a drink.”
The him waver. The light of died in his eyes. He for a moment in thought.
“You wouldn’t a through the window?” he queried, doubtfully.
“No, no!”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
He his arm in mine and we the road to where the lights of a public-house like beacons. The was over.
“Corky,” said Ukridge, his of on the a moments later, should him to any of its contents, “I can’t over, I cannot over the of your being in this town.”
I my position. My presence in Llunindnno was to the that the paper which occasionally use of my services as a special had sent me to a and more report than its local of of the of one Evan Jones, the latest of those who the of the Welsh population. His last and biggest meeting was to take place next at eleven o’clock.
“But what are you doing here?” I asked.
“What am I doing here?” said Ukridge. “Who, me? Why, where else would you me to be? Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Haven’t you the posters?”
“What posters? I only an hour ago.”
“My dear old horse! Then naturally you aren’t of local affairs.” He his mug, contentedly, and me out into the street. “Look!”
He was pointing at a poster, in red and black, which the side-wall of the Bon Ton Millinery Emporium. The street-lighting of Llunindnno is defective, but I was able to read what it said:—
ODDFELLOWS’ HALL
Special Ten-Round Contest.
LLOYD THOMAS
(Llunindnno)
vs.
BATTLING BILLSON
(Bermondsey).
“Comes off to-morrow night,” said Ukridge. “And I don’t mind telling you, laddie, that I to make a fortune.”
“Are you still the Battler?” I said, at this perseverance. “I should have that after your last two you would have had about of it.”
“Oh, he means this time! I’ve been talking to him like a father.”
“How much he get?”
“Twenty quid.”
“Twenty quid? Well, where the come in? Your will only be a tenner.”
“No, my boy. You haven’t got on to my shrewdness. I’m not in on the at all this time. I’m the management.”
“The management?”
“Well, part of it. You Isaac O’Brien, the I was partner with till that Looney Coote the business? Izzy Previn is his name. We’ve gone in this thing. Izzy came a week ago, the hall, and looked after the and so on; and I with good old Billson this afternoon. We’re him twenty quid, and the other fellow’s another twenty; and all the of the cash Izzy and I on a fifty-fifty basis. Affluence, laddie! That’s what it means. Affluence the of a Monte Cristo. Owing to this Jones the place is crowded, and every sportsman for miles around will be there to-morrow at five a head, seats two-and-six, and standing-room one shilling. Add and fish privileges, and you have a almost without in the of commerce. I couldn’t be more on if they gave me a and a and let me in the Mint.”
I him in terms.
“How is the Battler?” I asked.
“Trained to an ounce. Come and see him to-morrow morning.”
“I can’t come in the morning. I’ve got to go to this Jones meeting.”
“Oh, yes. Well, make it early in the afternoon, then. Don’t come later than three, he will be resting. We’re at Number Seven, Caerleon Street. Ask for the Cap and Feathers public-house, and turn to the left.”
I was in a mood on the as I set out to pay my respects to Mr. Billson. This was the time I had had occasion to one of these meetings, and the it had had on me was to make me as if I had been large of to the of a very loud orchestra. Even the rose to speak, the had had an quality to the mind, for the had to sing directly they took their seats; and while the opinion I had of the of Llunindnno was not high, there was no their powers. There is something about a Welsh voice when in song that no other voice to possess—a creepy, heart-searching quality that right into a man’s and it up with a pole. And on top of this had come Evan Jones’s address.
It did not take me long to why this man had gone through the country-side like a flame. He had magnetism, earnestness, and the voice of a in the wilderness. His to single out each in the hall, and every time he paused and up like the of a furnace. And then, after speaking for what I with on my watch was over an hour, he stopped. And I like an somnambulist, myself to make sure I was still there, and came away. And now, as I walked in search of the Cap and Feathers, I was, as I say, exhilarated: and I was along in a of when a me from my thoughts. I looked about me, and saw the of the Cap and Feathers over a across the street.
It was a dubious-looking in a neighbourhood: and the from its were not to a peace-loving pedestrian. There was a good of going on and much of glass; and, as I there, the door open and a familiar hastily. A moment later there appeared in the a woman.
She was a small woman, but she the largest and most I had seen. It dirty water as she it; and the man, over his shoulder, on his way.
“Hallo, Mr. Billson!” I said, as he by me.
It was not, perhaps, the best-chosen moment for to him in light conversation. He no to linger. He the corner, and the woman, with a words, gave her a and re-entered the public-house. I walked on, and a little later a out of an and into step at my side.
“Didn’t you, mister,” said Mr. Billson, apologetically.
“You in a hurry,” I agreed.
“’R!” said Mr. Billson, and a upon him for a space.
“Who,” I asked, tactlessly, perhaps, “was your lady friend?”
Mr. Billson looked a sheepish. Unnecessarily, in my opinion. Even may a by an angry woman.
“She come out of a room,” he said, with embarrassment. “Started makin’ a when she saw what I’d done. So I come away. You can’t a woman,” Mr. Billson, chivalrously.
“Certainly not,” I agreed. “But what was the trouble?”
“I been doin’ good,” said Mr. Billson, virtuously.
“Doing good?”
“Spillin’ their beers.”
“Whose beers?”
“All of their beers. I in and there was a of drinkin’ beers. So I ’em. All of ’em. Walked and all of them beers, one after the other. Not ’arf them wasn’t,” said Mr. Billson, with what to me not a chuckle.
“I can it.”
“Huh?”
“I say I they were.”
“’R!” said Mr. Billson. He frowned. “Beer,” he proceeded, with cold austerity, “ain’t right. Sinful, that’s what is. It like a and like a adder.”
My mouth a little. Beer like that was what I had been the country for for years. I it imprudent, however, to say so. For some which I not fathom, my companion, once as of his half-pint as the next man, to have a to the beverage. I to the subject.
“I’m looking to you to-night,” I said.
He me woodenly.
“Me?”
“Yes. At the Oddfellows’ Hall, you know.”
He his head.
“I ain’t at no Oddfellows’ Hall,” he replied. “Not at no Oddfellows’ Hall else I’m not fighting, not to-night no night.” He stolidly, and then, as if to the that his last be by the of a negative, added “No!”
And having said this, he stopped and like a pointing dog; and, looking up to see what object by the had his notice, I that we were another public-house sign, that of the Blue Boar. Its were open, and through them came a of glasses. Mr. Billson his with a relish.
“’Scuse me, mister,” he said, and left me abruptly.
My one now was to Ukridge as as possible, in order to him with these developments. For I was startled. More, I was and uneasy. In one of the star at a special ten-round contest, to take place that evening, Mr. Billson’s to me peculiar, not to say disquieting. So, though a crash and from the of the Blue Boar called to me to linger, I on, and neither stopped, looked, until I on the steps of Number Seven Caerleon Street. And eventually, after my and had a female of years to come up and open the door, I Ukridge on a horse-hair sofa in the of the sitting-room.
I my news. It was time to try to it gently.
“I’ve just Billson,” I said, “and he to be in a mood. In fact, I’m sorry to say, old man, he gave me the impression——”
“That he wasn’t going to to-night?” said Ukridge, with a calm. “Quite correct. He isn’t. He’s just been in here to tell me so. What I like about the man is his for all concerned. He doesn’t want to anybody’s arrangements.”
“But what’s the trouble? Is he kicking about only twenty pounds?”
“No. He thinks fighting’s sinful!”
“What?”
“Nothing more less, Corky, my boy. Like chumps, we took our off him for a second this morning, and he off to that meeting. Went out after a light and for what he called a of a round, and came in an hour ago a man. Full of loving-kindness, him. Nasty in his eye. Told us he and it was all off, and then out to spread the Word.”
I was to the core. Wilberforce Billson, the but Battler, had been an to manage, but he had the line at anything like this. Other little problems which he might have up for his manager to solve might have been overcome by patience and tact; but not this one. The of Mr. Billson was as an open book to me. He one of those single-track minds, of but one idea at a time, and he had the of the soul. Argument would him unshaken. On that bone-like Reason would in vain. And, these being so, I was at a to account for Ukridge’s calm. His in the hour of me.
His next remark, however, offered an explanation.
“We’re on a substitute,” he said.
I was relieved.
“Oh, you’ve got a substitute? That’s a of luck. Where did you him?”
“As a of fact, laddie, I’ve to go on myself.”
“What! You!”
“Only way out, my boy. No other solution.”
I at the man. Years of the with S. F. Ukridge had me almost surprise-proof at anything he might do, but this was too much.
“Do you to tell me that you to go out there to-night and appear in the ring?” I cried.
“Perfectly business-like proposition, old man,” said Ukridge, stoutly. “I’m in excellent shape. I with Billson every day while he was training.”
“Yes, but——”
“The is, laddie, you don’t my potentialities. Recently, it’s true, I’ve allowed myself to and what you might call enervated, but, damme, when I was on that in that tramp-steamer, a week used to go by without my having a good with somebody. Nothing barred,” said Ukridge, on the care-free past, “except and bottles.”
“Yes, but, it—a professional pugilist!”
“Well, to be accurate, laddie,” said Ukridge, the manner and confidential, “the thing’s going to be fixed. Izzy Previn has the Thomas’s manager, and has a gentleman’s agreement. The manager, a Class A blood-sucker, on us his man another twenty after the fight, but that can’t be helped. In return, the Thomas to play light for three rounds, at the end of which period, laddie, he will me on the of the and I shall go and out, a popular loser. What’s more, I’m allowed to him hard—once—just so long as it isn’t on the nose. So you see, a little tact, a little diplomacy, and the whole thing up as as anyone wish.”
“But the audience its money when they they’re going to see a substitute?”
“My dear old horse,” Ukridge, “surely you don’t that a man with a like mine that? Naturally, I’m going to as Battling Billson. Nobody him in this town. I’m a good big chap, just as much a heavy-weight as he is. No, laddie, how you will you can’t a in this.”
“Why mayn’t you him on the nose?”
“I don’t know. People have these whims. And now, Corky, my boy, I think you had me. I ought to relax.”
The Oddfellows’ Hall was up when I that night. Indeed, it as though Llunindnno’s of sport would it to the roof. I took my place in the line the pay-window, and, having the end of the transaction, in and my way to the dressing-rooms. And presently, after through passages, I came upon Ukridge, for the ring and in his familiar yellow mackintosh.
“You’re going to have a house,” I said. “The is up in shoals.”
He the with a of enthusiasm. I looked at him in concern, and was by his appearance. That face, which had so at our last meeting, was and set. Those eyes, which with the of an optimism, and careworn. And as I looked at him he to himself from a and, out for his shirt, which on a near-by peg, to it over his head.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
His out of the shirt, and he me wanly.
“I’m off,” he announced, briefly.
“Off? How do you mean, off?” I to what I took to be an eleventh-hour attack of stage-fright. “You’ll be all right.”
Ukridge laughed hollowly.
“Once the goes, you’ll the crowd.”
“It isn’t the crowd,” said Ukridge, in a voice, into his trousers. “Corky, old man,” he on, earnestly, “if you your angry to the point where you want to a in a public place, yourself. There’s nothing in it. This Thomas was in here a moment ago with his manager to settle the final details. He’s the I had the trouble with at the theatre last night!”
“The man you out of the seat by his ears?” I gasped.
Ukridge nodded.
“Recognised me at once, him, and it was all his manager, a I liked, do to prevent him at me there and then.”
“Good Lord!” I said, at this development, yet how it was of Ukridge, when he had a whole of people to with, to the one professional pugilist.
At this moment, when Ukridge was his left shoe, the door opened and a man came in.
The new-comer was stout, dark, and beady-eyed, and from his manner of easy and the that when he spoke he with the language of the palm, I that this must be Mr. Izzy Previn, as Isaac O’Brien. He was itself.
“Vell,” he said, with ill-timed exuberance, “how’th the boy?”
The boy a look at him.
“The house,” Mr. Previn, with an almost enthusiasm, “is full. Crammed, jammed, and packed. They’re from the by their eyelids. It’th goin’ to be a knock-out.”
The expression, the circumstances, have been less chosen. Ukridge painfully, then spoke in no voice.
“I’m not going to fight!”
Mr. Previn’s from him like a garment. His cigar from his mouth, and his with consternation.
“What do you mean?”
“Rather an thing has happened,” I explained. “It that this man Thomas is a Ukridge had trouble with at the theatre last night.”
“What do you mean, Ukridge?” in Mr. Previn. “This is Battling Billson.”
“I’ve told Corky all about it,” said Ukridge over his as he his right shoe. “Old of mine.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Previn, relieved. “Of course, if Mr. Corky is a friend of yours and that all this is private among ourselves and don’t want talking about outside, all right. But what were you thayin’? I can’t make or of it. How do you mean, you’re not goin’ to fight? Of you’re goin’ to fight.”
“Thomas was in here just now,” I said. “Ukridge and he had a at the theatre last night, and naturally Ukridge is he will go on the agreement.”
“Nonthense,” said Mr. Previn, and his manner was that of one a child. “He won’t go on the agreement. He promised he’d play light and he will play light. Gave me his word as a gentleman.”
“He isn’t a gentleman,” Ukridge pointed out, moodily.
“But lithen!”
“I’m going to out of here as quick as I well can!”
“Conthider!” Mr. Previn, great out of the air.
Ukridge to his collar.
“Reflect!” Mr. Previn. “There’s that audience all out there, like thardines, waiting for the thing to start. Do you me to go and tell ’em there ain’t goin’ to be no fight? I’m at you,” said Mr. Previn, trying an to his pride. “Where’s your spirit? A big, like you, that’s done all of scrappin’ in your time——”
“Not,” Ukridge pointed out coldly, “with any professional who’ve got a against me.”
“He won’t you.”
“He won’t the chance.”
“You’ll be as safe and in that ring with him as if you was playing with your little thister.”
Ukridge said he hadn’t got a little sister.
“But think!” Mr. Previn, like a seal. “Think of the money! Do you we’ll have to return it all, every of it?”
A of pain passed over Ukridge’s face, but he his collar.
“And not only that,” said Mr. Previn, “but, if you ask me, they’ll be so when they there ain’t goin’ to be no fight, they’ll me.”
Ukridge to this possibility with calm.
“And you, too,” added Mr. Previn.
Ukridge started. It was a theory, and one that had not to him before. He paused irresolutely. And at this moment a man came in.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded, fussily. “Thomas has been in the ring for five minutes. Isn’t your man ready?”
“In one tick,” said Mr. Previn. He to Ukridge. “That’s right, ain’t it? You’ll be in a tick?”
Ukridge wanly. In he shirt, trousers, shoes, and collar, from them as if they were old friends he to see again. One he at his mackintosh, across a chair; and then, with more than a of a procession, we started the that to the main hall. The of many voices came to us; there was a of light, and we were there.
I must say for the sport-loving citizens of Llunindnno that they appeared to be fair-minded men. Stranger in their though he was, they gave Ukridge an excellent as he into the ring; and for a moment, such is the of on a large scale, his to lift. A faint, played about his mouth, and I think it would have into a grin, had he not at this of the Mr. Thomas across the way. I saw him blink, as one who, of this and that, walks into a lamp-post; and his look of returned.
My for him. If the offer of my little savings in the bank have him there and then to the safety of his London lodgings, I would have it unreservedly. Mr. Previn had disappeared, me at the ring-side, and as nobody to object I there, thus an excellent view of the of and that up Lloyd Thomas. And there was of him to see.
Mr. Thomas was, I should imagine, one of those men who do not look their most in mufti—for otherwise I not how the that he had his seat have Ukridge to the hand of upon him. In the of the ring he looked a person from the man would almost any with meekness. He was about six in height, and a man with he bulged. For a moment my for Ukridge was with a that I should see this citizen in action with Mr. Billson. It would, I mused, have been a to Llunindnno to see.
The referee, meanwhile, had been the in the curt, fashion of referees. He now retired, and with a note a on the of the ring. The under the ropes. The man Thomas, struggling—it to me—with powerful emotions, came out of his corner.
In these of a and career, it is as a that I have for the most part had occasion to Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge. I was now to be that he also had it in him to be a doer. Even as Mr. Thomas him, his left out and against the other’s ribs. In short, in a and difficult situation, Ukridge was himself with an that me. However great might have been his to on this contest, once in he was doing well.
And then, half-way through the round, the truth upon me. Injured though Mr. Thomas had been, the gentleman’s agreement still held. The word of a Thomas was as good as his bond. Poignant though his of Ukridge might be, nevertheless, having himself to and self-restraint for the three rounds, he to by the contract. Probably, in the his visit to Ukridge’s dressing-room and his in the ring, his manager had been talking to him. At any rate, it was authority or his own of that him, the that he Ukridge with a forbearance, and the his at the end of one intact.
And it was this that him. No sooner had the for two than out he from his corner, above himself. He at Mr. Thomas like a Dervish.
I read his as if he had spoken them. Nothing be than that he had failed to the true position of affairs. Instead of his adversary’s for what it was and being for it, he was with a pride. Here, he told himself, was a man who had a solid against him—and, it, the couldn’t him a bit. What the whole thing to, he felt, was that he, Ukridge, was than he had suspected, a man to be with, and one who a of of sport something looking at. The was that, where any person would have the at once and to his by with Mr. Thomas in fashion, into his ear the clinches, and trying to the of a against the moment when the gentleman’s agreement should lapse, Ukridge the one act. There was a moment of and in the centre of the ring, then a sound, a yelp, and Mr. Thomas, with eye, against the and to himself in Welsh.
Ukridge had him on the nose.
Once more I must pay a to the fair-mindedness of the sportsmen of Llunindnno. The man was one of them—possibly Llunindnno’s son—yet nothing have the with which they the visitor’s achievement. A up as if Ukridge had done each present a personal favour. It as he upon his antagonist, and—to how Llunindnno themselves and free from any personal bias—it as Mr. Thomas, a like a ham, Ukridge on his back. Whatever happened, so long as it was violent, to be all right with that broad-minded audience.
Ukridge himself to one knee. His had been by this blow, about fifteen times as hard as the others he had since the of the affray, but he was a man of and determination. However he might a landlady, or he might a side-street at the of an creditor, there was nothing with his when it came to a issue man and man, by the financial element. He to his feet, while Mr. Thomas, now definitely the gentleman’s agreement, about him with fists, only by the that one of Ukridge’s still touched the floor.
It was at this of moments that a voice spoke in my ear. “’Alf a mo’, mister!”
A hand pushed me aside. Something large the lights. And Wilberforce Billson, under the ropes, into the ring.
For the purposes of the it was a good thing that for the moments after this a the audience in its grip. Otherwise, it might have been difficult to and causes. I think the were either too to shout, or else they for a the idea that Mr. Billson was the of a of plain-clothes police about to the place. At any rate, for a space they were silent, and he was to say his say.
“Fightin’,” Mr. Billson, “ain’t right!”
There was an in the audience. The voice of the came thinly, saying, “Here! Hi!”
“Sinful,” Mr. Billson, in a voice like a foghorn.
His was by Mr. Thomas, who was to him and attack Ukridge. The Battler pushed him back.
“Gents,” he roared, “I, too, have been a man of voylence! I ’ave men in anger. R, yes! But I ’ave the light. Oh, my brothers——”
The of his were lost. With a the melted. In every part of the were to their views.
But it is whether, if he had been a of their attention, Mr. Billson would have spoken to much length; for at this moment Lloyd Thomas, who had been at the of his with the air of a man who is able to just so much and limit has been exceeded, now these to the of self, and bare-handed, Mr. Billson on the jaw.
Mr. Billson turned. He was pained, one see that, but more than physically. For a moment he how to proceed. Then he the other cheek.
The Mr. Thomas that, too.
There was no or now about Wilberforce Billson. He that he had done all that be of any pacifist. A man has only two cheeks. He up a mast-like arm, to a third blow, with an and which sent his to the ropes; and then, his coat, into action with the that had him the hero of a hundred water-fronts. And I, Ukridge up as he from the ring, him away along the to his dressing-room. I would have much to and a mix-up which, if the police did not interfere, promised to be the of the ages, but the of are paramount.
Ten minutes later, however, when Ukridge, washed, clothed, and as near to the normal as a man may be who has the full weight of a Lloyd Thomas on a spot, was for his mackintosh, there through the doors and a so that my to it.
“Back in a minute, old man,” I said.
And, by that ever-swelling roar, I to the hall.
In the which I had been to my friend a to have been to the proceedings. The had its abandon. Upholders of the of had Mr. Thomas to his gloves, and a pair had also been upon the Battler. Moreover, it was that the of the now the conflict, for had been introduced, and one had just as I came in view of the ring. Mr. Billson was in a chair in one by his seconds, and in the opposite Mr. Thomas; and one of the two men was to tell me what had that of among the of Llunindnno. In the last of the which had just the native son must have ahead in no manner. Perhaps some had its way through the Battler’s guard, him open and to the final attack. For his attitude, as he in his corner, was that of one moments are numbered. His were closed, his mouth open, and was large upon him. Mr. Thomas, on the contrary, with hands on knees, an look, as if this of a his spirit.
The and he from his seat.
“Laddie!” an voice, and a hand my arm.
I was aware of Ukridge me. I him off. This was no moment for conversation. My whole attention was on what was in the ring.
“I say, laddie!”
Matters in there had that stage when their self-control—when men on seats and weak men “Siddown!” The air was full of that that the knock-out.
And the next moment it came. But it was not Lloyd Thomas who delivered it. From some of Wilberforce Billson, the of Bermondsey, who an had been under his antagonist’s like a a hurricane, produced that one last that battles. Up it came, to its mark, a stupendous, upper-cut which Mr. Thomas on the of the just as he to complete his task. It was the last word. Anything Llunindnno’s son might have with fortitude, for his was a teak-like to most of dynamite; but this was final. It left no for or evasion. Lloyd Thomas once in a complete circle, his hands, and slowly to the ground.
There was one wild from the audience, and then a fell. And in this Ukridge’s voice spoke once more in my ear.
“I say, laddie, that Previn has with every of the receipts!”
The little sitting-room of Number Seven Caerleon Street was very and gave the of being dark. This was there is so much of Ukridge and he takes Fate’s so that when anything goes his to a room like a fog. For some minutes after our return from the Oddfellows’ Hall a had prevailed. Ukridge had his on the of Mr. Previn; and as for me, the so as to of a mockery.
“And there’s another thing I’ve just remembered,” said Ukridge, hollowly, on his sofa.
“What’s that?” I enquired, in a voice.
“The Thomas. He was to have got another twenty pounds.”
“He’ll it, surely?”
“He’ll it all right,” said Ukridge, moodily. “Except, by Jove,” he on, a note of in his voice, “that he doesn’t know where I am. I was that. Lucky we it away from the he me.”
“You don’t think that Previn, when he was making the with Thomas’s manager, may have mentioned where you were staying?”
“Not likely. Why should he? What would he have?”
“Gentleman to see you, sir,” the female at the door.
The walked in. It was the man who had come to the dressing-room to that Thomas was in the ring; and though on that occasion we had not been I did not need Ukridge’s to tell me who he was.
“Mr. Previn?” he said. He was a man, direct in manner and speech.
“He’s not here,” said Ukridge.
“You’ll do. You’re his partner. I’ve come for that twenty pounds.”
There was a painful silence.
“It’s gone,” said Ukridge.
“What’s gone?”
“The money, it. And Previn, too. He’s bolted.” A hard look came into the other’s eyes. Dim as the light was, it was to his expression, and that was not an one.
“That won’t do,” he said, in a voice.
“Now, my dear old horse——”
“It’s no good trying anything like that on me. I want my money, or I’m going to call a policeman. Now, then!”
“But, laddie, be reasonable.”
“Made a mistake in not it in advance. But now’ll do. Out with it!”
“But I keep telling you Previn’s bolted!”
“He’s bolted,” I put in, trying to be helpful.
“That’s right, mister,” said a voice at the door. “I met ’im sneakin’ away.”
It was Wilberforce Billson. He in the diffidently, as one not sure of his welcome. His whole was apologetic. He had a on his left and one of his was closed, but he no other of his conflict.
Ukridge was upon him with eyes.
“You met him!” he moaned. “You actually met him?”
“R,” said Mr. Billson. “When I was comin’ to the ’all. I ’im puttin’ all that money into a bag, and then ’e ’urried off.”
“Good lord!” I cried. “Didn’t you what he was up to?”
“R,” Mr. Billson. “I always ’e was a ’un.”
“Then why, you woollen-headed fish,” Ukridge, exploding, “why on earth didn’t you stop him?”
“I of that,” Mr. Billson, apologetically.
Ukridge laughed a laugh.
“I just pushed ’im in the face,” Mr. Billson, “and took the away from ’im.”
He on the table a small weather-worn that as he moved it; then, with the air of one who some from his mind, moved to the door.
“’Scuse me, gents,” said Battling Billson, deprecatingly. “Can’t stop. I’ve got to go and spread the light.”
