The newsagent, who momentarily was expecting to awaken from this bad dream, shook his head ominously.
“It’s Jem Parkins, sir,” he replied, with that respect bordering upon awe which O’Hagan inspires in the plebeian soul. “He’s got the Blue Dragon now, but he’s ex-middleweight champion. There’ll be the devil to pay when he’s pulled hisself together, sir!”
“Reserve your speculations, Mr. Crichton,” said O’Hagan, “and confine yourself to facts. The young lady on the bus—your daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She takes after her mother.”
Mr. Crichton stared.
“Did you know Polly—Mrs. Crichton, sir?”
“No. I was referring to your daughter’s good looks. She dresses neatly.”
Mr. Crichton had something of the British tradesman’s independent spirit, and even the awe inspired by O’Hagan’s tremendous presence could not wholly smother his paternal resentment.
“I’d have you know that Pamela’s a lady, sir! And I’d have——”