The Saint kicked off the other shoe.
“Be kind to it, Hoppy,” he yawned, “it’s in a strange place.”
But Hoppy, lost in contemplation of a glorious tomorrow evolving from the stuff of his dreams, went on unheeding.
“Dis fat slob, Bilinski, who is de Masked Angel. He beats the Champ. Dat makes him de Champ, don’t it?”
The Saint eyed him curiously. “He hasn’t beaten him yet.”
“But if Barrelhouse Bilinski gets de crown,” Hoppy continued with growing inspiration, “dey is one guy who can knock him on his can any day in de week. Dat’s me, boss! If dat fat slob gets de champeenship. I’m de guy what can take it away from him. Den I’ll be de champ and you’ll be my manager!”
The telephone rang again.
“Excuse me,” said the Saint. “My bottle seems to be moving towards your hand.”
He rescued it in the nick of time, and picked up the phone.
He recognised at once the soft, husky lilt of the voice.