Henry gave it.
"Why, here's your lodging. . . . You seem peaceable enough." He shook his head again. "It don't do," he said, "just knocking people down when you feel like it. That's Bolshevism, that is."
"I'm glad I knocked him down," said Henry.
"You'd feel differently to-morrow morning after a night in Bow Street. But I know myself how tempting it is. You'll learn to restrain yourself when you come to my age. Now you go in and 'ave a wash and brush up. You need it." He patted Henry paternally on the shoulder. "I don't expect you're likely to hear much more of it."
With a smile of infinite wisdom he moved away. Henry stumbled up to his room.
Perhaps he had been a cad to hit Baxter when he wasn't expecting it. But he felt better. His head was aching like hell. But he felt better. And to-morrow he would work at those letters like a fanatic. He washed his face and realized with pleasure that although it was only the middle of the morning he was extremely hungry. Millie—yes, he was glad that he had hit Baxter.