If you try to strike or put
your hand in your pocket I shall pull on you; If you care to raise your
arms over your head and move to the right-hand corner of the room I'll
go quietly."
Jerry reckoned up all the chances and finally edged away from the door.
"Hands up, Jerry."
He obeyed, and I escaped into the street. Jerry is a coward at bottom,
or he might have known that I dare not fire.
He met me the very next day, and he wore the usual free, gay smile. He
held out his hand and flashed his teeth: "Forget that nonsense last
night, old pal. When the booze is in--you know the rest. I was only
having a lark. What'll you have? We shall be glad to see you round
again."
But Mr. Landlord had dropped a word to me only half an hour before. Said
Mr. Landlord, in answer to a little careless pumping, "Oh, Jerry? Well,
it ain't no business of mine, but if it wasn't for the girls he'd have
mighty few flash top-coats, nor beefsteaks neither for that matter."
Alas! Jerry, the smiling, delightful youth, is one of those odious pests
who hang about in sporting company, and who are contemned and shunned by
respectable racing men.
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