"I'm going down to Plymouth Monday to practise with the boxers there," said David, and Bartley nodded.
"They'll larn you a lot," he said.
Mr. Fogo's voice again rose in wrath.
"The Fancy won't stand it. Mark me; they'll hiss her out of the Ring. Such a thing won't be suffered in a Christian land."
The hour grew late and Mr. Maunder looked in somewhat coldly. Since his vital difference of opinion on the subject of the prize-fight, he had withdrawn his patronage from 'The Corner House.' It was felt that he could hardly be present in the camp of a combatant until the matter of the pending battle was at an end.
"Closing time, Mr. Shillabeer," he said, and the 'Dumpling' nodded.
"Right you are, Ernest. Come in and take a thimbleful along with me, won't 'e?"
"No, thank you. Not till this business is over. I'm against you, and I won't have bit or sup along with the enemy. I speak as the law, Shillabeer, and not as a man. Of course afterwards I shall come back again; but not till I've bested you, or you've bested me."
"Nobody could speak fairer," declared Mr. Shillabeer.
Then the company departed; Bartley Crocker went to bed; and Reuben asked his friend what steps he proposed to take with respect to evading the police on Monday week. But Fogo was in no amiable or communicative mood. His feelings had that night been much lacerated and the prospect of seeing a woman in a prize-ring affected him acutely. He would not talk about the matter, and when Mr. Shillabeer, according to custom, brought conversation round to his vanished partner over the last glass, Mr. Fogo failed of that tact for which he was renowned and refused even to speak well of the deceased.