Raffles, as he would have said in his own special slang, worked the "friendly lay" so well upon Jack, that that young gentleman was captured to the last gun; you can do an awful lot of execution by deferring to the opinion of a young man of sixteen, or thereabouts, as to the merit of relying exclusively on the left.
When the sparring was over, Raffles shuffled out with Jack into the yard and whistled. A little yellow, ear-torn dog bustled out of some shed and trotted demurely by Mr. Raffles' right boot.
"See that dog, Mr. Bourne?"
"By the way, Raffles, how did you know my name was Bourne?" asked Jack.
"Mr. Acting mentioned that it was so. No offence, I hope, sir?"
"Oh no!" said Jack.
"Mr. Acting mentioned to me as how Warmint might amuse you."
"Warmint! What the deuce is that?"
"Why, the dawg."
"Well, it's a pretty ugly brute anyhow, Raffles."