“Go on,” he ses, “out with ’im.”
“He’s all right,” ses Peter, trembling; “we’s the truest-’arted gentleman in London. Ain’t you, Bill?”
Bill said he was, and ’e asked the barman to go and hide ’is face because it reminded ’im of a little dog ’e had ’ad once wot ’ad died.
“You get outside afore you’re hurt,” ses the barman.
Bill punched at ’im over the bar, and not being able to reach ’im threw Peter’s pot o’ beer at ’im. There was a fearful to-do then, and the landlord jumped over the bar and stood in the doorway, whistling for the police. Bill struck out right and left, and the men in the bar went down like skittles, Peter among them. Then they got outside, and Bill, arter giving the landlord a thump in the back wot nearly made him swallow the whistle, jumped into a cab and pulled Peter Russet in arter ’im.
“I’ll talk to you by-and-by,” he ses, as the cab drove off at a gallop; “there ain’t room in this cab. You wait, my lad, that’s all. You just wait till we get out, and I’ll knock you silly.”
“Wot for, Bill?” ses Peter, staring.
“Don’t you talk to me,” roars Bill. “If I choose to knock you about that’s my business, ain’t it? Besides, you know very well.”