“Fill up ’is glass,” said Warr. “’Ere, Tom, give old Buckhorse a sup o’ liptrap. Warm his ’eart for ’im.”
The old man poured a glass of neat gin down his shrivelled throat, and the effect upon him was extraordinary. A light glimmered in each of his dull eyes, a tinge of colour came into his wax-like cheeks, and, opening his toothless mouth, he suddenly emitted a peculiar, bell-like, and most musical cry. A hoarse roar of laughter from all the company answered it, and flushed faces craned over each other to catch a glimpse of the veteran.
“There’s Buckhorse!” they cried. “Buckhorse is comin’ round again.”
“You can laugh if you vill, masters,” he cried, in his Lewkner Lane dialect, holding up his two thin, vein-covered hands. “It von’t be long that you’ll be able to see my crooks vich ’ave been on Figg’s conk, and on Jack Broughton’s, and on ’Arry Gray’s, and many another good fightin’ man that was millin’ for a livin’ before your fathers could eat pap.”
The company laughed again, and encouraged the old man by half-derisive and half-affectionate cries.
“Let ’em ’ave it, Buckhorse! Give it ’em straight! Tell us how the millin’ coves did it in your time.”
The old gladiator looked round him in great contempt.
“Vy, from vot I see,” he cried, in his high, broken treble, “there’s some on you that ain’t fit to flick a fly from a joint o’ meat. You’d make werry good ladies’ maids, the most of you, but you took the wrong turnin’ ven you came into the ring.”
“Give ’im a wipe over the mouth,” said a hoarse voice.
“Joe Berks,” said Jackson, “I’d save the hangman the job of breaking your neck if His Royal Highness wasn’t in the room.”