“Make him stop, Freddie!”
“Oh, I say you know, what!”
“Can’t you see he’s hurting the poor thing? Make him leave off! Brute!” she added to Henry (for whom one’s heart bleeds), as he jabbed once again at his adversary.
Freddie stepped reluctantly up to Henry, and tapped him on the shoulder. Freddie was one of those men who have a rooted idea that a conversation of this sort can only be begun by a tap on the shoulder.
“Look here, you know, you can’t do this sort of thing, you know!” said Freddie.
Henry raised a scarlet face.
“’Oo are you?” he demanded.
This attack from the rear, coming on top of his other troubles, tried his restraint sorely.
“Well—” Freddie hesitated. It seemed silly to offer the fellow one of his cards. “Well, as a matter of fact, my name’s Rooke …”
“And who,” pursued Henry, “arsked you to come shoving your ugly mug in ’ere?”