"H'sh! H'sh!" breathed Mr. Purnip, tilting his hat and wiping his bald, benevolent head.
"I forgot," said the other, with something like a sigh. "No more fighting; but suppose somebody hits me?"
"Turn the other cheek," replied Mr. Purnip.
"They won't hit that; and when they see you standing there smiling at them—"
"After being hit?" interrupted Mr. Billing.
"After being hit," assented the other, "they'll be ashamed of themselves, and it'll hurt them more than if you struck them."
"Let's 'ope so," said the convert; "but it don't sound reasonable. I can hit a man pretty 'ard. Not that I'm bad-tempered, mind you; a bit quick, p'r'aps. And, after all, a good smack in the jaw saves any amount of argufying."
Mr. Purnip smiled, and, as they walked along, painted a glowing picture of the influence to be wielded by a first-class fighting-man who refused to fight. It was a rough neighbourhood, and he recognized with sorrow that more respect was paid to a heavy fist than to a noble intellect or a loving heart.
"And you combine them all," he said, patting his companion's arm.
Mr. Billing smiled. "You ought to know best," he said, modestly.