“Not much, sir. It's not the night for sparring. We've got harmony to-night, sir.”
“I want a set-to with the gloves, Perkins. What do you say?”
“Well, sir, I should be willing enough, but I am going out for a spree. Just the thing to suit you if you are in the humour.”
“What is it, Perkins?”
“Well, sir, you must keep it dark, or it wouldn't do me any good in my business; but the Slogger and I are going,”—and here he bent over the bar with an air of great mystery,—“we're going to a Chartist meeting to-night. The Slogger knows a fellow who is hot about it, and he's put him up to the pass-word. So we're going, and if you and Mr. Prescott are game, you can go with us. We can easily get up a row if we like, and it's hard if us four can't fight our way out of it.”
“The very thing, Perkins; as you say, it's hard if we can't get up a row somehow. What do you say, Prescott?”
“Anything you like, Frank. A black eye will not look strictly professional, but as I have no case on in court it won't much matter. I have not used my fists since that last town and gown row we were in together at Cambridge; and I have no objection to a row for once in a way.”
“Well, Mr. Maynard, we are not to start till half-past nine, it's no use getting there too early, so if you don't mind going upstairs for an hour, I will tell you when it is time to be off.”