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"Aggravating rather than bad. I am called to Washington. May be gone four or five days. Official business. Leaves things here a bit in the air." "I'll stay as long as you need me," said Miss Frances. "I'd rather a man now. You've been a brick. You need rest. I've a chap in mind. He'll make our friend here toe the mark. A physical instructor, ex-pugilist; knows all about broken heads."
If if he were ever run to earth! His eyes met those of a heavy-built, coarse-featured man, the chewed end of a cigar in his mouth, who stepped from behind the bar, carrying a tin tray with two full glasses upon it. It was Bristol Bob, ex-pugilist, the proprietor. "How're you, Larry?" grunted the man, with what he meant to be a smile.
Their very names were a recommendation: Big Jack Skinner, Black Shand Fraser, Husky Marr, and Young Joe Hagland, the ex-pugilist. After the horses had been turned out to graze, they all gathered in the store for a gossip.
Again the ex-pugilist paused for breath, and again the "hammytoor" stood up before him, smiling more grimly than ever panting a little, it is true, but quite unscathed about the face, for he had guarded it with great care although he had received some rather severe body blows.
He goes for an hour to Tim McCurdy's, the ex-pugilist, for training. Then he's home for an hour with his secretary, going over private business and correspondence. Then he goes to the club for bridge, and in the evening he's usually out somewhere any place that's A1 with the crowd.
He wanted to sicken Beatrice and her father of their strange infatuation for Lindsay. A plan began to unfold itself to him. It was one which called for expert assistance. He looked up Jerry Durand, got him on the telephone, and made an appointment to meet him secretly. The ex-pugilist sat back in the chair, chewing an unlighted black cigar, his fishy eyes fixed on Bromfield.
He found himself gazing with some amazement into the grinning homely face of "Iron Man" McCorquodale, the ex-pugilist with whom he had exchanged sparring compliments the night of the fog. "McCorquodale! How'd you get here?" "On the too-too," responded the Iron Man, rapidly recovering both breath and good humor. "Don't get fresh, McCorquodale.
Those who wanted to get in and those who wanted to get out all tried to talk at once, but as soon as the police recognized Jerry Durand they gave him the floor. "We're after a flat-worker," explained the ex-pugilist. "He must be tryin' for a roof getaway." He turned and led the joint forces back up the stairs. Thugs and officers surged up after him, carrying with them in their rush the Runt.
This was a clear showing of the white feather in the opinion of Stoker, who replied with a thundering, "No!" and at the same moment made a savage blow at Charlie's face. Our hero was prepared for it. He put his head quickly to one side, let the blow pass, and with his left hand lightly tapped the bridge of his opponent's nose. "Hah! a hammytoor!" exclaimed the ex-pugilist in some surprise.
"Now, wouldn't that jostle yuh? It's true, too; it has sure arranged a lot uh battles for me. It caused me to lick about six kids a day, and to get licked by a dozen, when I went to school. So, seeing the name was mine, and I couldn't chuck it, I went and throwed in with an ex-pugilist and learned the trade thorough. Since then things come easier.
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