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Updated: May 9, 2025
Come back to the office when you're ready." The ex-pugilist had come to gloat over him. Clay knew it at once. His pupils narrowed. He was lying on the bed, his supple body stretched at graceful ease. Not by the lift of an eyelid did he recognize the presence of his enemy. Durand stood in front of the cell, hands in pockets, the inevitable unlit black cigar in his mouth.
He says he's a queer mixture of prizefighter and politician. He can protect anything he likes, and pretty nearly drive out anything he doesn't like. Isn't it worth while making a bid for his support? It may please him to be asked." "Who is he?" "Oh, a saloon-keeper, Irish, ex-pugilist. His name is Michael Shay. He's easy to find," said Jim. "Let's go now," said Hopkins.
Mr Spence said nothing, but he opened his eyes very wide. Recalling his recent conversation with Sheen, he remembered that the boy had told him he had been taking lessons, and also that Joe Bevan, the ex-pugilist, had expressed a high opinion of his work. Mr Spence had imagined that Bevan had been a chance spectator of the boy's skill; but it would now seem that Bevan himself had taught Sheen.
"Up to this time," he resumed, "our friend, the ex-pugilist, had never actually killed any one, but soon after I engaged myself to look after him, word was brought to the department that a poor woman had been murdered, a cheap music-hall dancer. She had seen better days, however." Lord Ronsdale, who had been looking away, yawned, as if finding the police agent "wordy," then strolled to the rail.
It had been a brisk little mix-up while it lasted; but it had not taken the ex-pugilist long to discover that he was facing the best amateur boxer Varsity had produced in a number of years and right in the middle of it he had put on his coat deliberately, to the overwhelming disappointment of his two friends. "Nix, you guys!" he had grunted, breathing heavily. "I knows when I'm up against it.
"Some ex-pugilist," he heard a man's voice saying, and he recognized it at once as belonging to him who had given the orders. He recognized, also, that it must be the man with the sneer. "You think he was an amateur robber and an expert prize fighter?" asked Ruth Tolliver. It seemed to Ronicky Doone that her voice was perfectly controlled and calm.
Docilely Hawksley obeyed. He wasn't going to let them know, but that bed was going to be tolerably welcome. "Well!" said Miss Frances. "I don't see how he did it." "I do," said the ex-pugilist. "I told him to. Either he was a false alarm, or he'd attempt the job even if he fell down. The hull thing is this: Make a guy wanta get well an' he'll get well. If he's got any pride, dig it up.
And why, since Clarendon was trembling lest it be discovered, should the Arizonan too join the conspiracy of silence? At any rate she would not uncover her hand. "He told us several things," she said significantly. "You've got to make open confession, Clary." The ex-pugilist chewed his cigar and looked at her. "What would he confess? That the man with him murdered Collins?"
The unexpressed friendship that had sprung up between the taciturn bookkeeper and the loquacious ex-pugilist was both a puzzle and a delight to Bobby, and it was one of his great joys to see them together, they not knowing why they liked such companionship, not having a single topic of conversation in common, but unconsciously enjoying that vague, sympathetic man-soul they found in each other.
The ex-pugilist listened sourly to Bromfield's proposition. He watched narrowly this fashionably dressed visitor. His suspicions still stirred, but not so actively. He was inclined to believe in the sincerity of the fellow's hatred of the Westerner. Jealousy over a girl could easily account for it. Jerry did not intend to involve himself until he had made sure. "Whatta you want me to do?
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