"Stow it, you old bag o' wickedness—"
"Bag o'—" the Old Un let fall the boxing gloves and turning on Joe, reached up and shook a feeble old fist under the champion's massive chin. "Look at this, me lad—look at this!" he croaked. "Some day I shall ketch you sich a perishin' punch as'll double ye up till kingdom come, me lad, and—Lord, the Guv's countin' out our money—"
"Thirty of 'em, Joe," said Ravenslee, holding out a wad of bills.
"Why, sir," said Joe, backing away, "axing yer pardon, but I'd rayther not—you give me such uncommon good wages, sir, and a bonus every race we run, win or lose—so, sir, I—I'd rayther not—"
"Not?" cried the Old Un, "not take money as is 'arf mine—Oh, kick 'im, somebody—kick 'im! Pound 'im for a pigeon-'earted perishin' pork pig—"
"That'll be no sugar in your tea t'night, old viciousness! But, sir, I'd rayther not—"
"Don't 'eed 'im, Guv—don't 'eed the flappin' flounder. If 'e wont obleege ye in a little matter like thirty dollars, I will—I'll always obleege you—"
"That's enough from you, old tombstones."
"Tombstones!" hissed the Old Un, scowling darkly and squaring his trembling fists, "all right, me lad, 'ere 's where I ketch ye one as'll flatten ye out till the day o' doom—"
Hereupon Joe caught him above the elbows, and lifting him in mighty hands that yet were gentle, seated the snarling old fellow in the armchair.