Mr. Crichton sat down.
“You”—to the tottering pugilist—“put on your filthy rags, and get out.”
Parkins steadied himself against the door.
“What d’you mean, get out? I’ve got more right ’ere than you! Just wait, you cowardly skunk! I’ll ’ave you yet! I’ll quod you for this!”
“You have one minute to get out. If I hear from you again, I shall give you in charge for assault and battery!”
O’Hagan, lolling against the counter, swung the monocle carelessly. The amplitude of his nonchalance prevailed. Parkins, recalling that he had struck the first blow, stuffed his “dicky” into his coat, resumed that garment, and began to unbolt the door.
With never a backward glance, the discredited Mr. Parkins made his exit. One of a curious group, without, entered on the pretence of buying a halfpenny paper. He was served by the trembling newsagent, but save for the presence of a hatless, distinguished gentleman, saw nothing to satisfy his curiosity in Mr. Crichton’s shop.
“Now, Mr. Crichton,” said O’Hagan, the customer departed, “in reference to Pamela: has the fellow, Parkins, pretensions?”
Mr. Crichton, pro tempore, was past protest.
“He’s an old pal o’ mine,” he explained, unsteadily, “and well off—and——”