"What d'ye want, youngster?" he asked irritably. "Sing out, quick; I'm busy just now."
The quite unexpected answer took him, metaphorically speaking, off his feet.
"Oh, please, Forge, will you sign your name in my autograph album?" asked Robin, producing from behind his back an oblong book in a somewhat grubby, red-leather binding.
"Why, kid, what's the game? No nonsense, now? I've a pretty rough way of dealing with Juniors who try to pull my leg."
"Oh, honour bright, Forge, I want your autograph ever so much," declared Robin with the utmost gravity. "Put it here, please, on the page I keep for footballers and boxers."
"Boxers! What are you driving at, you little monkey? You are trying to pull my leg, after all!"
"Indeed, no, Forge! Do sign. There, underneath the autograph of the light-weight champion of the world."
Dick found himself breathing rather fast as he looked from Robin to the book, and from the book back to Robin again.
"Though you don't seem to realize it, younker, this is rather a tender subject for me," he said at last, quietly. "You say you want me to sign your book amongst the footballers and boxers! Footballer I may be, in a measure, but why boxer?"
"Because you beat big Juddy Stockgill to a frazzle on the Anvil Inn bowling-green," Robin replied, almost reverently.