As the train came in he found an empty carriage for them.
Betty, stepping forward, held out a dainty hand.
The ostler took it, and, stooping down, stroked it between his mighty palms:
“Look ye here, Miss Betty,” said he—“you’ll be a great lady some day—I haven’t been chucked out of a markiss’s stables without spottin’ the breed when I see it—but it may likely enough take some nasty days getting there.... Now, missee, if you ever wants anythink in my line of business,” he added significantly, “this address will always find me—it’s where my old mother lives. And if so be that you ever wants physical assistance, jest you go to the nearest telegraph-office. You’ve only got to say the word, and wheresoever it be in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland or the parts lying adjacent thereto, Sim Crittenden will spoil the handsomest face the Lord ever made—so help me God!”
He took off his hat and held it in his hand, and they each in turn shook his great fist.
He blew his nose strenuously as the train moved out of the station, Betty, where she sat in the window, biting her handkerchief, the tears streaming down the child’s face.
The prize-fighting ostler sang no song for several days.