The two combatants had overcoats thrown over their shoulders, and the whole party, backers, fighters, seconds, and the referee, filed out of the room. A police inspector was waiting for them in the road. He had a notebook in his hand—that terrible weapon which awes even the London cabman.
"I must take your names, gentlemen, in case it should be necessary to proceed for breach of peace."
"You don't mean to stop the fight?" cried Armitage, in a passion of indignation. "I'm Mr. Armitage, of Croxley, and this is Mr. Wilson, and we'll be responsible that all is fair and as it should be.'
"I'll take the names in case it should be necessary to proceed," said the inspector, impassively.
"But you know me well."
"If you was a dook or even a judge it would be all the same," said the inspector. "It's the law, and there's an end. I'll not take upon myself to stop the fight, seeing that gloves are to be used, but I'll take the names of all concerned. Silas Craggs, Robert Montgomery, Edward Barton, James Stapleton, of London. Who seconds Silas Craggs?"
"I do," said the woman. "Yes, you can stare, but it's my job, and no one else's. Anastasia's the name—four a's."
"Craggs?"
"Johnson. Anastasia Johnson. If you jug him, you can jug me."
"Who talked of juggin', ye fool?" growled the Master. "Coom on, Mr. Armitage, for I'm fair sick o' this loiterin'."