“Here, Zook,” said Charlie, as the former passed the table at which he was seated taking his supper, “I’ve bought more than I can eat, as usual! I’ve got two red-herrings and can eat only one. Will you help me?”
“It’s all fish that comes to my net, Charlie,” said the little man, skipping towards his friend, and accepting the herring with a grateful but exaggerated bow.
We omitted to say that our hero passed among the paupers by his Christian name, which he had given as being, from its very universality, the best possible alias.
A few minutes later Stoker entered and went to the fire, where loud, angry voices soon told that the bully was at his old game of peace-disturber. Presently a cry of “shame” was heard, and poor Zook was seen lying on the floor with his nose bleeding.
“Who cried shame?” demanded the bully, looking fiercely round.
“I did not,” said Charlie Brooke, striding towards him, “for I did not know it was you who knocked him down, but I do cry shame on you now, for striking a man so much smaller than yourself, and without provocation, I warrant.”
“An’ pray who are you?” returned Stoker, in a tone that was meant to be witheringly sarcastic.
“I am one who likes fair play,” said Charlie, restraining his anger, for he was still anxious to throw oil on the troubled waters, “and if you call it fair play for a heavy-weight like you to attack such a light-weight as Zook, you must have forgotten somehow that you are an Englishman. Come, now, Stoker, say to Zook you are sorry and won’t worry him any more, and I’m sure he’ll forgive you!”
“Hear! hear!” cried several of the on-lookers.
“Perhaps I may forgive ’im,” said Zook, with a humorous leer, as he wiped his bleeding nose— “I’d do a’most anything to please Charlie!”