“Conthider!” pleaded Mr. Previn, clawing great chunks out of the air.
Ukridge began to button his collar.
“Reflect!” moaned Mr. Previn. “There’s that lovely audience all sitting out there, jammed like thardines, waiting for the thing to start. Do you expect me to go and tell ’em there ain’t goin’ to be no fight? I’m thurprised at you,” said Mr. Previn, trying an appeal to his pride. “Where’s your manly spirit? A big, husky feller like you, that’s done all sorts of scrappin’ in your time——”
“Not,” Ukridge pointed out coldly, “with any damned professional pugilists who’ve got a grievance against me.”
“He won’t hurt you.”
“He won’t get the chance.”
“You’ll be as safe and cosy in that ring with him as if you was playing ball with your little thister.”
Ukridge said he hadn’t got a little sister.
“But think!” implored Mr. Previn, flapping like a seal. “Think of the money! Do you realise we’ll have to return it all, every penny of it?”
A spasm of pain passed over Ukridge’s face, but he continued buttoning his collar.