said,
"You've come home and taken my liquor; you flirt with my sister, and
you're going away without leaving so much as a bit of gold. I'm not such
a fool as Blackey. I know your aunt. I can send a newspaper to her
address, and cook _your_ goose. Suppose I make a row. I can do that, and
we'll both be taken up for brawling outside a house of ill-fame. It
won't matter to me; I'm used to it. But you'll be spoofed. Now, share up
with an old pal, and I'll keep dark."

I had contrived to edge away from him, and I had time to produce the
detestable firearm in a leisurely way.

"You're very kind, Jerry, my lad. I'll stay at this side of the room,
and I shan't fire so long as you keep still. 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. Said a grave turfite to me last week, "Call
_those_ sportsmen! I'd--I'd--" but he could not invent a doom horrid
enough for them, so he changed the subject with a mighty snort.

There is no knowing what gentlemen like Jerry will do. To call them
scoundrels is to flatter them: they are brigands, and the knifing,
lounging rascals of Sicily and Calabria are mere children in villany
compared with their English imitators. Places like The Chequers are the
hunting-grounds of creatures like Jerry, and the bait of drink draws the
victims thither ready to be sacrificed. A month ago four of Jerry's gang
most heartlessly robbed a