“It is, though,” said the old fisherman, peering through screwed-up eyes. “They’ve made it up through old Peter, that’s wot they’ve done. He’s been talking at ’em and getting at ’em, and now there won’t be no fight.”
His disappointed auditors groaned in chorus. “Won’t there,” said Larkins, savagely. “Ho—won’t there—— You don’t think me and my friend Bullock here are going to slave three weeks for nothing, do you?”
“There won’t be no fight,” repeated the old man. “Look how loving they are! All three of ’em as close together as sweethearts.”
The advancing trio certainly bore out the old man’s words to the letter. Mr. Peter Morgan was in the centre, and appeared to be half-embracing his companions.
“Why, they can hardly walk,” said Bullock; “they’ve been too far.”
“Yes, that’s what it is,” said Larkins, in a hollow voice.
“Seems to me,” said the boy, slowly, “that they’ve ’ad a bit of a scrap already.”
The crowd, with bated breath, stepped out to meet them, Larkins and Bullock leading. It was evident that the two heroes were clinging to Mr. Morgan more for support than from any motives of affection, and it was no less evident that the lad’s remark as to a bit of a scrap was capable of wide interpretation. In a few minutes both parties were face to face, and the two trainers gazing at their charges speechless with indignation.
“Which is Gubbs?” demanded Larkins at last, in an unnatural voice.
The figure on Morgan’s right arm managed to open an eye and to twist its swollen lips into something intended for a smile.