“Wot ’appened to ’im?” ses Peter Russet, arter waiting a bit for ’er to finish.
“I can’t bear to talk of it,” ses Miss Tucker, holding up Ginger’s glass and giving the counter a wipe down. “He met Bill, and I saw ’im six weeks afterward just as ’e was being sent away from the ’ospital to a seaside home. Bill disappeared after that.”
“Has he gone far away?” ses Ginger, trying to speak in a off-’and way.
“Oh, he’s back now,” ses Miss Tucker. “You’ll see ’im fast enough, and, wotever you do, don’t let ’im know you’re a prize-fighter.”
“Why not?” ses pore Ginger.
“Because o’ the surprise it’ll be to ’im,” ses Miss Tucker. “Let ’im rush on to ’is doom. He’ll get a lesson ’e don’t expect, the bully. Don’t be afraid of ’urting ’im. Think o’ pore Smith and Charlie Webb.”
“I am thinkin’ of ’em,” ses Ginger, slow-like. “Is—is Bill—very quick—with his ’ands?”
“Rather,” ses Miss Tucker; “but o’ course he ain’t up to your mark; he’s on’y known in these parts.”
She went off to serve a customer, and Ginger Dick tried to catch Peter’s eye, but couldn’t, and when Miss Tucker came back he said ’e must be going.
“Sunday afternoon at a quarter past three sharp, outside ’ere,” she ses. “Never mind about putting on your best clothes, because Bill is sure to be hanging about. I’ll take care o’ that.”