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As I stood with my back against the partition, the bar-tender slipped round the end of the counter. "Look here, guv'nor," he whispered with good intent, "the back door's open, run like the devil." I turned to him in mild surprise. "Don't be an ijit," he went on. "Git. Why! he's Tommy Flynn, the champion rib cracker and face pusher of Harlford, here on his holidays."
I could hear his voice swearing and complaining in almost healthy vigour, so I was pleasantly confirmed in what I already had surmised, his hurt was as temporary as the flat of a good, trusty, highland broad-sword could make it. Tommy Flynn, The Harlford Bruiser I hurried down the avenue to where it joined the dusty roadway. I stood for a few moments in indecision.
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