During this reminiscence, the man on the ground had contrived to clear his mind of the mistiness induced by the Kid’s upper-cut. The first sign he showed of returning intelligence was a sudden dash for safety up the road. But he had not gone five yards when he sat down limply.
The Kid was inspired to further reminiscence. “Guess he’s feeling pretty poor,” he said. “It’s no good him trying to run for a while after he’s put his chin in the way of a real live one. I remember when Joe Peterson put me out, way back when I was new to the game–it was the same year I fought Martin Kelly. He had an awful punch, had old Joe, and he put me down and out in the eighth round. After the fight they found me on the fire-escape outside my dressing-room. ‘Come in, Kid,’ says they. ‘It’s all right, chaps,’ I says, ‘I’m dying.’ Like that. ‘It’s all right, chaps, I’m dying.’ Same with this guy. See what I mean?”
They formed a group about the fallen black-jack expert.
“Pardon us,” said Psmith courteously, “for breaking in upon your reverie; but, if you could spare us a moment of your valuable time, there are one or two things which we should like to know.”
“Sure thing,” agreed the Kid.
“In the first place,” continued Psmith, “would it be betraying professional secrets if you told us which particular bevy of energetic sandbaggers it is to which you are attached?”
“Gent,” explained the Kid, “wants to know what’s your gang.”
The man on the ground muttered something that to Psmith and Billy was unintelligible.
“It would be a charity,” said the former, “if some philanthropist would give this blighter elocution lessons. Can you interpret, Comrade Brady?”
“Says it’s the Three Points,” said the Kid.
“The Three Points? Let me see, is that Dude Dawson, Comrade Windsor, or the other gentleman?”
“It’s Spider Reilly. Dude Dawson runs the Table Hill crowd.”
“Perhaps this is Spider Reilly?”
“Nope,” said the Kid. “I know the Spider. This ain’t him. This is some other mutt.”
“Which other mutt in particular?” asked Psmith. “Try and find out, Comrade Brady. You seem to be able to understand what he says. To me, personally, his remarks sound like the output of a gramophone with a hot potato in its mouth.”
“Says he’s Jack Repetto,” announced the interpreter.
There was another interruption at this moment. The bashful Mr. Repetto, plainly a man who was not happy in the society of strangers, made another attempt to withdraw. Reaching out a pair of lean hands, he pulled the Kid’s legs from under him with a swift jerk, and, wriggling to his feet, started off again down the road. Once more, however, desire outran performance. He got as far as the nearest street-lamp, but no farther. The giddiness seemed to overcome him again, for he grasped the lamp-post, and, sliding slowly to the ground, sat there motionless.
The Kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to be wrathful and vindictive. He was the first of the three to reach the elusive Mr. Repetto, and if that worthy had happened to be standing instead of sitting it might have gone hard with him. But the Kid was not the man to attack a fallen foe. He contented himself with brushing the dust off his person and addressing a richly abusive flow of remarks to Mr. Repetto.
Under the rays of the lamp it was possible to discern more closely the features of the black-jack exponent. There was a subtle but noticeable resemblance to those of Mr. Bat Jarvis. Apparently the latter’s oiled forelock, worn low over the forehead, was more a concession to the general fashion prevailing in gang circles than an expression of personal taste. Mr. Repetto had it, too. In his case it was almost white, for the fallen warrior was an albino. His eyes, which were closed, had white lashes and were set as near together as Nature had been able to manage without actually running them into one another. His under-lip protruded and drooped. Looking at him, one felt instinctively that no judging committee of a beauty contest would hesitate a moment before him.