Some people grinned sympathetically. They all moved away.
In an upper room of the neighbouring public-house were a suffering “runner” and a disconsolate “cabby.” The “runner” could tell them nothing tangible concerning the man he pursued.
“I sawr ’im bring the hoss dahn like a bullick,” he whispered, for the poor fellow had received a terrible blow. “I went arter ’im, dodged rahnd the fust corner, an’, bli-me, ’e gev me a punch that would ’ave ’arted Corbett.”
“What with—his fist?” inquired Brett.
“Nah, guv’nor—’is ’eel, blawst ’im. I could ’ave dodged a square blow. I can use my dukes a bit myself.”
“What was the value of the punch?”
The youth tried to smile, though the effort tortured him. “It was worth ’arf a thick ’un at least, guv’nor.”
Hume gave him two sovereigns, and the runner could not have been more taken aback had the donor “landed him” on the sound jaw.
“And now, you,” said Brett to the cabman. “What did you see?”
“Me!” with a snort of indignation. “Little over an hour ago I sawr a smawt keb an’ a tidy little nag wot I gev thirty quid fer at Ward’s in the Edgware Road a fortnight larst Toosday. And wot do I see now? Marylebone Work’us fer me an’ the missis an’ the kids. My keb gone, my best hoss killed, an’ a pore old crock left, worth abart enough to pay the week’s stablin’. I see a lot, I do.”