That same evening Mr. Ramper made his last effort to practise on me. We
were straddling among a sporting group in The Chequers bar, when he
said, "Better settle over Dexter." "Dexter? What about Dexter?" "Didn't
you take Dexter agin' Folly?" "Not such a mug." Then the hound raised
his voice in the fashion of his tribe. "You goin' to welsh me, are you?
You don't mean to pay that ten bob? I'll 'ave it out of your bloomin'
liver!" All this was uttered in a yell which was intended to draw
attention, and the creak of the brute's voice made me inclined to dash
my fist in his vile face. But I only grinned and said "What a poor liar
you are."
The more the Ramper screeched, the more I laughed; he durst not strike,
and at last, when I reminded him that he had already divided a little
plunder with the capitalist, he grumbled a curse or two and lapsed into
affability. You cannot shame one of these beings, and the Ramper is now
on the most confidential terms with me. I am very glad we did not fight,
because he introduced me to one of the most interesting and estimable of
all my acquaintances.
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