Up above watched the sunfish, his grey eyes wide, for all the docks had heard the story—how the famous Brighton Blighter had encountered some toff or other in Oxford Street the previous night, and how, after some passing reference to lords and ladies, the heavy-weight champion had been knocked out cold within a minute.
So this mild-eyed, wide-shouldered yachtsman was the man, then! The sunfish quietly laid aside his pipe and stood waiting; if his invitation had been accepted in the spirit in which it had been issued, he was like to have his work cut out for him. Harcourt, however, displayed no bellicose intention, but halted a few feet away.
"Well, now that I am here, I presume you'll grant me a few moments?"
The sunfish grinned as the blue eyes twinkled into his.
"I can spare you five minutes, my lord. I thought that perhaps you desired a sparring partner!"
"Oh, I say now!" Harcourt flushed again and was plainly ill at ease. "Just forget all that bally rot, can't you? It's too beastly——"
"Listen!"
The sunfish held up a hand, and from the wharf below a confused murmur drifted up from the gathering crowd.
"That's 'im, a talkin' to 'Ammer!"
"Aw, what youse givin' us? He didn't knock out your blamed white hope!"