“Got us—hell!” snarled the youth. “Bud’s askin’ for it, an’ some day he’s goin’ t’ get it—good!”
Toward afternoon, Ravenslee was trundling light-heartedly eastward, his barrow emptied to the last peanut. Having reached Fifth Avenue, he paused to mop his perspiring brow when a long, low automobile, powerfully engined, that was creeping along behind, pulled up with a sudden jerk, and its driver, whose immense shoulders were clad in a very smart livery, pushed up the peak of his smart cap to run his fingers through his close-cropped hair, while his mild blue eyes grew very wide and round.
“Crikey!” said he at last. “Is that you, sir, or ain’t it?”
“How much?” demanded Ravenslee gruffly.
“Crumbs!” said the chauffeur. “Sir, if you—ain’t you, all I say is—I ain’t me!”
“Aw—what’s bitin’ ye, bo?” growled Ravenslee.
“Well, if this ain’t the rummest go, I’m a perisher!”
“Say, now, crank up d’ machine an’ beat it while d’ goin’ ‘s good. How’s that, Joe?”
“Lord, Mr. Ravenslee—so you are my guv’nor, and blow me tight—shoving a barrer! I knowed it was you, sir; leastways I knowed your legs an’ the set o’ them shoulders, but—with a barrer! Excuse me, sir, but the idea o’ you pushing a perishing peanut barrer so gay an’ ‘appy-‘earted—well, all I can say is love-a-duck!”
“Well now, cut along, Joe, and get ready. I mean to put in some real hard work with you this afternoon.”
“Right-o, sir!” nodded Joe eagerly. “Lord, but we’ve missed you terrible—the Old Un an’ me.”
“Glad of it, Joe! Tell Patterson to have my bath ready when we’ve finished. Off with you—drive in the Fifth Avenue entrance.”
Joe nodded, and the big car turned and crept silently away, while Ravenslee, trundling onward, turned off to the left and so into a very large, exceedingly neat garage where stood five or six automobiles of various patterns in one of which, a luxurious limousine, an old, old man snored blissfully. At the rumble of the barrow, however, this ancient being choked upon a snore, coughed, swore plaintively, and finally sat up. Perceiving Ravenslee, he blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stepping from the car very nimbly despite his years, faced the intruder with a ferocious scowl.
He was indeed a very ancient man, though very nattily dressed from spotless collar to shiny patent leather shoes, a small, dandified, bright-eyed man whose broken nose and battered features bore eloquent testimony to long and hard usage.
“‘Ook it!” he croaked, with square bony jaw fiercely outthrust. “We don’t want no peanuts ‘ere, d’j ‘ear? ‘Op off, ‘ook it before I break every blessed bone in yer bloomin’ body!”
“What, Old Un, don’t you know me, either?”
“Lumme!” exclaimed the little old man, blinking beneath hoary brows. “Ho, lor’ lumme, it’s ‘im! Blimy, it’s the Guv’nor—’ow do, Guv!” and shooting immaculate cuffs over bony wrists he extended a clawlike hand.
“How are you, Old Un?”
“Well, sir, what with the rheumatix an’ a stiff j’int or two an’ a touch o’ lumbager, not to mention all my other ailments, I ain’t quite s’ spry as I was!”
“But you look very well!”
“That’s where your heyes deceives you, Guv. A great sufferer I be, though patient under haffliction, ho, yus— except for a swear now an’ then which do me a power o’ good—yus! If I was to tell you all the woes as my poor old carkiss is hair to, you could write a book on ‘em—a big ‘un. I got everything the matter wi’ me, I ‘ave, from a thick ear an’ broke nose as I took in Brummagem sixty an’ five years ago to a hactive liver.”
“A what?” enquired Ravenslee.
“A hactive liver. Lord, Guv, my liver gets that hactive lately as I can’t set still—Joe knows, ax Joe! All as I ain’t got o’ human woes is toothache, not ‘avin’ no teeth to ache, y’ see, an’ them s’ rotten as it ‘ud make yer ‘eart bleed. An’ then I get took short o’ breath—look at me now, dang it!”
“Why, then, sit down, Old Un,” said Ravenslee, drawing up a somewhat worn armchair. “Joe and I are going at it hard and fast this afternoon, and I want you to time the rounds.” And he proceeded to remove his garments.
“Oh, j’y!” cried the Old Un, hugging himself in bony arms. “Oh, j’yful words. Ah, but you peels like a good un, sir,” he croaked, viewing white flesh and bulging muscle with knowing old eyes, “good an’ long in the arm an’ wide slope o’ shoulder. You might ha’ done well in the ring if you’d been blessed wi’ poverty an’ I’d ‘ad the ‘andling of ye—a world’s unbeat champion, like Joe. A good fighter were I an’ a wonnerful trainer! Ho, yus, I might ha’ made a top-notcher of ye if you ‘adn’t been cursed wi’ money.”
“I suppose,” said Ravenslee thoughtfully, “I suppose Joe was one of the best all-round fighting men that ever climbed into a ring?”
“Ah—that ‘e were! Joe were better ‘n the best—only don’t let ‘im ‘ear me say so, ‘e ‘d be that puffed up—Lord! But nobody could beat Joe—black, yaller or white; they all tried danged ‘ard, but Joe were a world-beater—y’ see, I trained Joe! An’ to-day ‘e ‘s as good as ever ‘e was. Y’ see, Joe’s allus lived clean, sir, consequent Joe’s sound, wind an’ limb. Joe could go back an’ beat all these fancy bruisers and stringy young champs to-day—if ‘e only would—but don’t let ‘im ‘ear me say so.”
“You’re fond of Joe, Old Un?”
“An’ why for not, sir—s’ long as ‘e don’t know it? Didn’t ‘e look arter poor old me when ‘e ‘ad money, an’ when ‘e lost everything, didn’t ‘e look arter me still? An’ now ‘e ‘s your shuvver, don’ ‘e keep a roof over me poor old ‘ead like a son—don’t ‘e give me the run o’ jour garridge an’ let me watch ‘im spar wi’ you an’ your gentlemen friends? Ain’t ‘e the best an’ truest-‘earted man as ever drawed breath? Ah, a king o’ men is Joe, in the ring an’ out, sir— only never let ‘im ‘ear me say so—’e ‘d be that proud, Lord! there’d be no livin’ wi’ ‘im—sh, ‘ere ‘e be, sir.”
Joe had laid by his chauffeur’s garb and looked even bigger and grimmer in flannels and sweater.
“Ho you, Joe,” cried the old man, scowling, “did ye bring me that ‘bacca?”
