“You ought to know what I can do,” Jacob answered, with a reminiscent smile.
Hartwell’s face darkened.
“Curse you, you little pup!” he muttered. “Anyways,” he went on, “you won’t be quite so flip with your tongue in half an hour’s time. We’ve a gentleman here from Glasgow come down to amuse you. Like to have a look at him?”
The door was opened and closed again. The man in the black-and-white check suit entered. Seen at close quarters, he turned out to be a very fine specimen of the bull-necked, sandy-haired prize fighter. He came about a yard into the place and stood grinning at Jacob.
“Like an introduction?” Hartwell continued. “Shake hands with the Glasgow Daisy, then—Mr. Jacob Pratt.”
Jacob looked the newcomer up and down.
“To what am I indebted,” he asked, “for this unexpected pleasure?”
The Glasgow Daisy grinned again, until his face seemed all freckles and flashing white teeth.
“Guv’nor,” he announced, “I’ve got to give you a hiding, but I’d never have taken the job on if I’d known you were a bantam weight. Better come on and get it over. I shan’t do more than knock you about a bit.”