“Good-night, May,” the sergeant called, and turned into the street. But he swung back along the footpath after Johnny, and asked, “Is it to-morrow?”
“What, sergeant?”
“Oh, I ain’t a sergeant—I’m a stranger. There’s a sergeant goes to that moral establishment p’raps,” with a nod at the Institute, “but he behaves strictly proper. I’m just a chap out in the street that would like to see the fight, that’s all. When is it?”
“I don’t quite know that myself,” Johnny answered.
“Oh—like that, is it? Hum.” The sergeant was thoughtful for a moment—perhaps incredulous. Then he said, “Well, can’t be helped, I suppose. Anyway, keep your left goin’ strong, but don’t lead quite so reckless, with your head up an’ no guard. You’re good enough. An’ the bigger he is, the more to hit!”
XXIX.
Mr. Butson was perhaps a shade relieved when he returned home that night and found all quiet, and Johnny in bed. He had half expected that his inopportune return might have caused trouble. But the night after, as he came from the railway station, a little earlier than usual, Johnny stopped him in the street.
“I want to speak to you,” he said. “Just come round by the dock wall.”
His manner was quiet and businesslike, but Mr. Butson wondered. “Why?” he asked. “Can’t you tell me here?”
“No, I can’t. There are too many people about. It’s money in your pocket if you come.”