"You go with this fellow, Pierre," he said. "You go police with this fellow. He talkee alla same upper ten. You savvey? You savvey toff in disguise?"
"Toff? Oh, me elbow!" shouted somebody, which seemed an insulting phrase in the society in which they moved. There was an offer, on Scholar's behalf, to paste a face because of it, an acceptance, a scrimmage. "Don't! Don't! Don't!" cried Scholar, and they stopped, drew apart.
"We'll go ashore," he said again to the Frenchman.
"No, no matter. They say," and Pierre waved a hand at the recent fighters and the watchers of the fighters, "even if they leesten—'No good; bottom of the dock!' Hay? No matter!" and he lay back again.
There was a slight movement of the ship that caused the "Push"—those that were left of it—to stagger. Somebody outside said: "We're off! Is the push aboard? Where's Jack? Where's Johnnie? Where's Mike?"
"Mike, is it?" answered a voice. "Here he is. Who is the man that has a valise?" and he appeared in the doorway with a cut across his forehead from the hair to the temple. He was carrying a small suit-case.
"Glory!" shouted Cockney. '"Ere's yer old valise, Pierre!"
"Ma valise!"
"Is it yours? Well, if ye had been an Englishman, or a Scotsman, or an Irishman, or a Bostoner, I would have had to hit ye for havin' a valise, but seein' ye're a Frenchman and all alone like, here's your ruddy trunk!" and he laid it upon the bunk.
"Your head's bleedin', Mike," said one of the men.