His friend, also plainly a guy of established wisdom, assented with a curt nod.
“Ah!” he agreed.
“Lew Lucas,” said the first wise guy, “is just as shifty, and he can punch.”
“Ah!” said the second wise guy.
“Just because he beats up a few poor mutts of sparring-partners,” said the first wise guy disparagingly, “he thinks he's someone.”
“Ah!” said the second wise guy.
As far as Sally could interpret these remarks, the full meaning of which was shrouded from her, they seemed to be reassuring. For a comforting moment she ceased to regard Ginger as a martyr waiting to be devoured by a lion. Mr. Butler, she gathered, was not so formidable as he appeared. But her relief was not to be long-lived.
“Of course he'll eat this red-headed gink,” went on the first wise guy. “That's the thing he does best, killing his sparring-partners. But Lew Lucas...”
Sally was not interested in Lew Lucas. That numbing fear had come back to her. Even these cognoscenti, little as they esteemed Mr. Butler, had plainly no doubts as to what he would do to Ginger. She tried to tear herself away, but something stronger than her own will kept her there standing where she was, holding on to the rope and staring forlornly into the ring.
“Ready, Bugs?” asked Mr. Burrowes.