“Well, what about Tarbut? He ought to be trained too,” said one of the men. “Fair play’s fair play any day.”
“I’ll train ’im,” said an old ex-coastguardsman.
“I don’t want no training,” said Tarbut, surlily. “I’ve beat ’im, beat ’im easy.”
“Well, beat ’im again, Tarbut,” said one of his friends. “I’ll put my five bob on you. Who’ll take me?”
For the next five minutes, heedless of the assertions of both men that they wouldn’t fight any more, bets were freely taken, Tarbut, in view of his recent success, being a hot favourite.
A jarring element was introduced into the proceedings by a small, elderly man wearing a piece of blue ribbon, who, pushing his way in eagerly, inquired what it was all about. Nobody troubling to give him a correct answer, he tried to solve it for himself, and was then caught, just in the nick of time, trying to make the enemies shake hands.
“You go off to your Mother’s Meeting, Peter Morgan,” said an incensed voice.
“It’s a fight,” said the little man, raising his voice. “Oh, my friends——”
“It’s nothing o’ the kind,” said Larkins, hotly. “I’m training ’em for a race, that’s all. They’re just going to see who’s the best runner.”
Morgan, disregarding the publican, looked to others for information.