Ten minutes before he arrives at that theatre which has been the scene of the Terror’s triumphs, Mike enters a bakery whereof the proprietor, a German, is known to him. Mike has no money but he feels no confusion for that.
“John,” says Mike to the German; “I’ve got to spar a little to-night and I want a big plate of soup.”
“Sure!” says John, leading the way to a rear room which thrives greasily as a kind of restaurant. “And here, Mike,” goes on John, as the soup arrives, “I’ll put a big drink of sherry in it. You will feel good because of it, and the sherry and the hot soup will make you quick and strong already.”
At the finish, Mike, with an eye of bland innocence—for he is certain the theatre will give him something, even if it withhold the full two hundred—tells John he will pay for the soup within the hour, when he returns.
“That’s all right, Mike,” cries the good-natured baker, “any time will do.”
“This w’y, me cove,” observes a person with a cockney accent, as the sharp gamin delivers Mike, together with the message to the Terror, at the stage door; “this w’y; ’ere’s a dressin’ room for you to shift your togs.”
Later, when Mike’s outer husks are off and he stands arrayed for the ring, this person, who is old and gray and wears a scarred and battered visage, looks Mike over in approval:
“You seems an amazin’ bit of stuff, lad,” says this worthy man; “the build of Tom Sayres at his best, but’eavier. I ’opes you’ll do this Mick, but I’m afeared on it. You looks too pretty; an’ you ain’t got a fightin’ face. How ’eavy be you, lad?”
“One hundred and eighty-one,” replies Mike, smiling on the Englishman with his boy’s eyes.
“Can you spar a bit?” asks the other.