“... ten,” concluded Jacob, who had been counting all the time.
There was a sharp report and a yell of pain. The prize fighter, hopping on his right leg and holding his left ankle, seized a bar of the grating.
“If you don’t let me out, you b—y b—s, I’ll pound you both into a jelly!” he shouted. “I’ve a damned good mind to do it now! This’ll cost you five hundred quid, this will! If I can’t fight next Tuesday, it’ll cost you a thousand. Open the b—y door!”
They let him out, and Jacob, through the aperture, watched the three men make slow progress to the boat, one on each side supporting the Glasgow Daisy, whose language the whole of the way was vociferous and obscene. Afterwards Jacob once more found time hanging heavily upon his hands. He sharpened his penknife and commenced to carve his initials on the wall. There were no signs of Lady Mary or any other visitors until after dinner. Then the Marquis came slowly down from the castle, paused to light a cigarette when he reached the boat, and paddled himself over, looking around all the time with the air of one enjoying the scenery and the beautiful evening. Finally he climbed the stone stairs and presented himself at the other side of the grating.
“Mr. Pratt,” he said, “I am sorry that you did not appreciate our friends’ little effort to provide you with some amusement in the way of your favourite sport.”
“Thank you,” Jacob replied, “I don’t fight professional heavyweights.”
“I am afraid,” the Marquis observed with a sigh, “that this particular heavyweight will not be in fighting trim again for some months. A heavy responsibility for you, Mr. Pratt.”
Jacob smiled.
“I didn’t engage him,” he said.