“Yes, sir,” said our visitor, pushing his huge form into the room. “It’s Bill Warr, landlord of the One Ton public-’ouse, Jermyn Street, and the gamest man upon the list. There’s only one thing that ever beat me, Sir Charles, and that was my flesh, which creeps over me that amazin’ fast that I’ve always got four stone that ’as no business there. Why, sir, I’ve got enough to spare to make a feather-weight champion out of. You’d ’ardly think, to look at me, that even after Mendoza fought me I was able to jump the four-foot ropes at the ring-side just as light as a little kiddy; but if I was to chuck my castor into the ring now I’d never get it till the wind blew it out again, for blow my dicky if I could climb after. My respec’s to you, young sir, and I ’ope I see you well.”
My uncle’s face had expressed considerable disgust at this invasion of his privacy, but it was part of his position to be on good terms with the fighting-men, so he contented himself with asking curtly what business had brought him there. For answer the huge prizefighter looked meaningly at the valet.
“It’s important, Sir Charles, and between man and man,” said he.
“You may go, Lorimer. Now, Warr, what is the matter?”
The bruiser very calmly seated himself astride of a chair with his arms resting upon the back of it.
“I’ve got information, Sir Charles,” said he.
“Well, what is it?” cried my uncle, impatiently.
“Information of value.”
“Out with it, then!”
“Information that’s worth money,” said Warr, and pursed up his lips.