“Tod Bingham. ’E comes up just as ’e’s goin’ in at the stage-door, and ’e says ‘’Ere!’ and Tod says ‘Yus?’ and this bloke ’e says ‘Put ’em up!’ and Tod says ‘Put wot up?’ and this bloke says ‘Yer ’ands,’ and Tod says ‘Wot, me?’—sort of surprised. An’ the next minute they’re fightin’ all over the shop.”
“But surely Tod Bingham was run over by a truck?”
The man in the battered hat surveyed me with the mingled scorn and resentment which the devout bestow on those of heretical views.
“Truck! ’E wasn’t run over by no truck. Wot mikes yer fink ’e was run over by a truck? Wot ’ud ’e be doin’ bein’ run over by a truck? ’E ’ad it put across ’im by this red-’eaded bloke, same as I’m tellin’ yer.”
A great light shone upon me.
“Red-headed?” I cried.
“Yus.”
“A big man?”
“Yus.”
“And he put it across Tod Bingham?”