“Can’t you leave me alone now?” whined Butson. “You done enough, ain’t ye?”
“No—not near enough. An’ you’ll have a lot more if you don’t do as I tell you. I said I’d take you home, an’ I will. Go on!”
Two or three dark streets led to Harbour Lane, but they were short. It was past closing time, and when they reached the shop the lights were turned down and the door shut. Nan opened to Johnny’s knock, and he thrust Butson in before him. “Here he is,” said Johnny, “not thrashed half enough!”
Dusty and bleeding, his face nigh unrecognisable under cuts and bruises, Butson sat on a box, a figure of shame. Nan screamed and ran to him.
“I did it where the neighbours wouldn’t hear,” Johnny explained, “and if he’d been a man he’d have drowned himself rather than come here, after the way I’ve treated him. He’s a poor cur, an’ I’ll buy a whip for him. There’s the money I promised you” he went on, putting it on the box. “It’s the first you’ve earned for years, and the last you’ll have here, if I can manage it!”
But Nan was crying over that dishonourable head, and wiping it with her handkerchief.
XXX.
“Why what’s that?” said Long Hicks on the way to work in the morning. “Got cuts all over yer hands!”
“Yes,” Johnny answered laconically. “Fighting.”
“Fightin’!” Long Hicks looked mighty reproachful. “Jest you be careful what company you’re gettin’ into,” he said severely. “You’re neglectin’ yer drawin’ and everything lately, an’ now—fightin’!”