Mr. Dobb, warmly eulogizing Mr. Tridge’s philosophy, assured him that the money was safe enough. Once arrangements were in trim for the combat, he—Mr. Dobb—would hold himself personally responsible for its payment.
“And we’ll set the ball rolling this very night,” said Mr. Dobb, with a computative glance at the clock. “Jevvings’ll be up in the ‘Rose and Crown,’ along of some of ’is pals. You must manage to get into a haltercation with ’im straightway, and leave the rest to me and one or two others what are in the know. We’ll see that a boxing match is fixed up between you, and you can leave all the arrangements to us.”
To all this Mr. Tridge assented with perfect readiness. Mr. Dobb then added a few simple instructions, and, after a single rehearsal, pronounced Mr. Tridge perfect in his role. Summoning his wife from some remote apartment, Mr. Dobb affably slipped his arm through Mr. Tridge’s, and the pair set off for the “Rose and Crown.”
“That’s ’im—that’s Jevvings!” whispered Horace, as they entered the crowded saloon bar. “That quiet-looking young feller in the check suit, with the pink tie, sitting reading the noospaper with patent leather boots on.”
Mr. Tridge, with a nod of comprehension, began to cross the floor. He was in the act of passing the young man when he stumbled clumsily, and, to preserve his balance, first knocked off the young man’s hat and next ripped the newspaper from his grasp.
“Why can’t you keep your great feet out of the way?” bellowed Mr. Tridge, furiously. “You ought to sit with ’em sticking out of the window, the size they are! You don’t want patent leather on ’em—you wants red lamps on ’em and a watchman’s box by the side of ’em! Of all the awkward—”
Mr. Jevvings, while preserving his calm under this onslaught, rose from his seat with a singularly sinister expression. Then, catching the expressive face of Mr. Dobb, he sat down again, a little helplessly. An awed hush had fallen on the room; frequenters of the apartment carefully setting down their glasses stared incredulously at the truculent Mr. Tridge.
“I must ask you to apologize!” said the aggrieved Mr. Jevvings, in a somewhat fluty voice.
“You ask away!” returned Mr. Tridge, with jocund ferocity. “You keep on till you’re as black in the face as your blessed great boots! Apologize to a splay-footed whipper-snapper like you? Why, I’d sooner give you a smack in the eye! Far sooner! And so I would, too, for two pins!”
A sort of stifling surprise agitated the room and those gentlemen who were in the forefront of the quarrel cautiously stood back, while those on the outer rim of the altercation craned eagerly forward.