“Never you mind, sir,” he said grimly. “I reckons that’s my own business.”
“Given up the game, Jem?” asked Hugh.
“It give me up, when that cross-eyed son of a gun Young Baxter fought that cross down at ’Oxton. Gawd! if I could get the swine—just once again—s’welp me, I’d——” Words failed the ex-bruiser; he could only mutter. And Hugh, who remembered the real reason why the game had given Jem up, and a period of detention at His Majesty’s expense had taken its place, preserved a discreet silence.
The pug paused as he got to the door, and looked at Drummond doubtfully. Then he seemed to make up his mind, and advanced to the side of the bed.
“It ain’t none o’ my business,” he muttered hoarsely, “but seeing as ’ow you’re one of the boys, if I was you I wouldn’t get looking too close at things in this ’ere ’ouse. It ain’t ’ealthy: only don’t say as I said so.”
Hugh smiled.
“Thank you, Jem. By the way, has anyone got a stiff neck in the house this morning?”
“Stiff neck!” echoed the man. “Strike me pink if that ain’t funny—your asking, I mean. The bloke’s sitting up in ’is bed swearing awful. Can’t move ’is ’ead at all.”
“And who, might I ask, is the bloke?” said Drummond, stirring his tea.
“Why, Peterson, o’ course. ’Oo else? Breakfast at nine.”