“Ah!” he said. “You little crow! What the ’ell made you speak to Docker?”
‘Jimmy’ grinned. Some new body within him stood there defiant. “She’s my ’orse,” he said.
“You —— Gawd-forsaken rat! If I ’ad you in a quiet spot, I’d shake the life out of you!”
‘Jimmy’ stared up, his little spindle legs apart, like a cock-sparrow confronting an offended pigeon.
“Go ’ome,” he said, “George Pulcher; and get your mother to mend your socks. You don’t know ’ow! Thought I wasn’t a man, did you? Well, now you —— well know I am. Keep off my ’orse in future.”
Crimson rushed up on crimson in Pulcher’s face; he raised his heavy fists. ‘Jimmy’ stood, unmoving, his little hands in his bell-coat pockets, his withered face upraised. The big man gulped as if swallowing back the tide of blood; his fists edged forward and then—dropped.
“That’s better,” said ‘Jimmy,’ “hit one of your own size.”
Emitting a deep growl, George Pulcher walked away.
“Two to one on the field—I’ll back the field—Two to one on the field.” “Threes Snowdrift—Fours Iron Dook.”