"Oh, he is still," said Greatorex. "I thought we should get something out of you, Corrance."
"But a parson——" began Pynsent doubtfully.
"He was the amateur middleweight champion before he took Orders," said Corrance, "and it's the pugilist in him, not the parson, which has made him the man he is. He'll tackle Mark, never fear. He tackles me—periodically, but all the same, if this thing is serious he will accomplish nothing."
"That is what I say," Pynsent added.
But Tommy, the smallest and weakest of the three, doggedly persisted. Finally he persuaded Corrance to seek out the Bishop of Poplar. Having extracted a promise to this effect, he took leave of the others, for his article, due on the morrow, had to be finished that night. Pynsent and Corrance remained together. As the little man plunged into the crowd, Pynsent said: "Tommy Greatorex would cut off his right hand for Mark, but I've heard men call him selfish and self-centred."
Corrance at once began to analyse this indisputable fact, sticking out his chin, and talking with an aggressive frankness which much amused the painter, who said presently:
"We may as well admit, Jim, that we're cold-blooded, you and I——"
"For the sake of argument—yes. Go on!"
"Partly because of that we've succeeded. I can't see myself, or you, my boy, chucking our work to help others, although after the work was done we might write a cheque—eh?"
"You had better have another whisky and potass."