Hoppy wiped non-existent perspiration from the Saint’s brow.
“Dat foist round wuz slow-motion, boss,” he rasped encouragingly. “Howja feel?”
The Saint smiled coolly.
“Fine. Where’s Whitey?”
“He forgot de towels.” Hoppy thrust the mouth of the water-bottle at Simon’s lips. “Take a drink?”
The Saint leaned back and turned his face away slightly as the water poured out of the uplifted bottle and slopped over his neck and chest.
“Chees, boss!” Hoppy peered at the Saint’s face. “Dijja get any?”
“All I need. Wet my face.”
Hoppy reached about vaguely for a non-existent towel, seized the Saint’s dressing-gown draped over the edge of the ring apron, and used it instead to mop the moisture from Simon’s face and body.
“Hoppy,” said the Saint in a low voice, as his faithful disciple started to fan him with the robe. “Hoppy, listen.”