“Have a care, master,” said he. “You’ll get pepper if you don’t.”
Something in the assured voice, and something also in the quiet pose, warned the young lord of his danger. I saw him look hard at his antagonist, and as he did so, his hands and his jaw dropped together.
“By Gad!” he cried, “it’s Jack Harrison!”
“My name, master!”
“And I thought you were some Essex chaw-bacon! Why, man, I haven’t seen you since the day you nearly killed Black Baruk, and cost me a cool hundred by doing it.”
How they roared on the coach.
“Smoked! Smoked, by Gad!” they yelled. “It’s Jack Harrison the bruiser! Lord Frederick was going to take on the ex-champion. Give him one on the apron, Fred, and see what happens.”
But the driver had already climbed back into his perch, laughing as loudly as any of his companions.
“We’ll let you off this time, Harrison,” said he. “Are those your sons down there?”
“This is my nephew, master.”