"First-rate valet you'd make, Koko," said the Long 'Un, ungratefully.
Koko, without replying, pushed the empty portmanteau under the bed, and then washed his hands.
"I must be off now," he said simply.
"Oh, hang on a bit," returned Mortimer, as they went back to the sitting-room.
"Must go," said Koko, smoothing his silk hat with his coat sleeve--"work."
"Where?"
"Billiards in the afternoon, fight in the evening."
And with that he quietly departed.
Nobody would have dreamed that this quiet little man with the bald head had attended and described in nimble boxing terminology some of the fiercest combats that have ever been held at the National Milling Club; nobody would have dreamed that the Mr George Somers, whose hobby was the collecting of old, worm-eaten volumes, and whose initials, "G.S.," were so familiar to the readers of the Book Hunter, was a well-known figure in swimming-baths, gymnasiums, billiard saloons, football, and cricket grounds the country over, gun clubs, lacrosse clubs, tennis clubs, and weight-lifting clubs. Yet the little man who nosed round bookstalls in Holywell Street (that was), Wych Street (that was), and St Martin's Lane (that is), in search of rare first editions, was identical with the little man who accompanied Jim on many of his freebooting expeditions "up west," and with the little man who attended sporting functions of every kind all the year round, rain or shine, in the proud capacity of the Sporting Mail's "special representative."
When Koko, some hours later, on his return from the billiard match, again looked in on the Long 'Un, he found Mr Mortimer still in his dressing-gown lolling over a book. The table bore the débris of Jim's lunch.