“Spare us your humour,” pleaded Bittle wearily. “It doesn’t amuse me.”
“But it amuses me!—as the actress said on an auspicious occasion,” said the Saint, and would have continued in that vein if Bloem and Maggs had not arrived at that moment.
Both looked much the worse for wear, and their heads bore abundant tokens of the cold water which had been liberally used in resuscitating them. In addition, Bloem’s forehead was disfigured by a bruise which was rapidly taking to itself all the brighter hues of the rainbow, and the way he glared at the Saint was not friendly.
“The compliments of the season, Mynheer,” drawled Simon. “And who’s the other little ray of sunshine, Mr. Chairman?”
“Our captain, Mr. Maggs,” Bittle introduced that injured warrior suavely. “You have not met him before, Templar, but our dear friend Miss Holm knocked him out an hour or two ago.”
“Delighted!” murmured the Saint. “She seems to have made a good job of it, Maggie—or did you always look like that?”
Mr. Maggs lowered.
“My name’s Maggs,” he blustered.
“But I shall call you Maggie,” insisted the Saint. “It’s more matey, and it suits you better. And really I didn’t mean to be rude about your face. You’ve got a nice kind face, like a cow.”
Mr. Maggs turned away with a growl, and stalked over to the girl. Then the Saint was afraid, and the veins stood out purply on his forehead as he wrestled with his bonds.