On his way to the hospital he saw a remarkably tall policeman approaching.
“Well, you are a long-legged copper,” he muttered to himself, with an irrepressible laugh as he thought of old times. The old spirit seemed to revive with the old associations, for he felt a strong temptation to make a face at the policeman, execute the old double-shuffle, stick his thumb to the end of his nose, and bolt! As the man drew nearer he did actually make a face in spite of himself—a face of surprise—which caused the man to stop.
“Excuse me,” said Bob, with much of his old bluntness, “are not you Number 666?”
“That is not my number now, sir, though I confess it was once,” answered the policeman, with a humorous twinkle of the eye.
Bobby noticed the word “sir,” and felt elated. It was almost more than waif-and-stray human nature could stand to be respectfully “sirred” by a London policeman—his old foe, whom, in days gone by and on occasions innumerable, he had scorned, scouted, and insulted, with all the ingenuity of his fertile brain.
“Your name is Giles Scott, is it not?” he asked.
“It is, sir.”
“Do you remember a little ragged boy who once had his leg broken by a runaway pony at the West-end—long ago?”
“Yes, as well as if I’d seen him yesterday. His name was Bobby Frog, and a sad scamp he was, though it is said he’s doing well in Canada.”
“He must ’ave changed considerable,” returned Bob, reverting to his old language with wonderful facility, “w’en Number 666 don’t know ’im. Yes, in me, Robert Frog, Esquire, of Chikopow Farm, Canada Vest, you be’old your ancient henemy, who is on’y too ’appy to ’ave the chance of axin your parding for all the trouble he gave you, an’ all the ’ard names he called you in days gone by.”