“Nobody don’t dot no pals of mine not when I’m around,” said Mr. Billson.
“It was awfully good of you to trouble,” I said with feeling.
“No trouble,” said Mr. Billson.
“You must have hit that barman pretty hard. He came out at about forty miles an hour.”
“I dotted him,” agreed Mr. Billson.
“I’m afraid he has hurt your eye,” I said, sympathetically.
“Him!” said Mr. Billson, expectorating with scorn. “That wasn’t him. That was his pals. Six or seven of ’em there was.”
“And did you dot them too?” I cried, amazed at the prowess of this wonder-man.
“’R!” said Mr. Billson. He smoked awhile. “But I dotted ’im most,” he proceeded. He looked at me with honest warmth, his chivalrous heart plainly stirred to its depths. “The idea,” he said, disgustedly, “of a —— —— ’is size”—he defined the barman crisply and, as far as I could judge after so brief an acquaintanceship, accurately—“goin’ and dottin’ a little —— —— like you!”
The sentiment was so admirable that I could not take exception to its phraseology. Nor did I rebel at being called “little.” To a man of Mr. Billson’s mould I supposed most people looked little.