"Oh, yes. The minx who slipped into Horsham Manor. I told you about her. But her name isn't Smith."
"Jerry has been looking for her." He laughed. "He thought at first, he said, he'd see her on the street, but was surprised to find the city so large. He was a little disappointed. But I think he's forgotten. There's safety in numbers."
"Then he doesn't know anything yet?"
"Bless your heart! I'd no more think of teaching Jerry filth than I would my own sister. But by the Lord Harry, he's an inquisitive cuss. He's learning that life isn't all beer and skittles, has felt the skinny talons of poverty on his elbow and has heard a truck-driver swear in the approved New York manner. That in itself was a liberal education. The worst of it was that the chap happened to be swearing at Jerry."
He chuckled at the memory.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Jerry jumped over the wheel, caught the man by the collar of his coat and threw him into the street. He was a big 'un too."
Ballard lingered provokingly in the narrative, which was interesting me greatly.
"And then?" I asked.
"The fellow rose, covered with slime, looking vicious.