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. Said the Ramper, blowing his sickly breath into my
very ear, "There's a bloke yere as knows suthin' good for Lincoln. Up in
the corner there. Let's sit down." Within a minute I found myself
talking to a queer, battered man, who bent moodily over his glass of
gin and stole furtive glances at me with bleared, sullen eyes. His blood
was charged with bile, and he could not prevent the sudden muscular
twitchings of his hands. His knuckles were swollen, and his fingers were
twisted slightly. Evidently he was diseased to the very bone through
alcoholic excesses. He was dressed in a shiny overcoat, and his bony
shanks threatened to pierce his trousers. When he pushed back his rakish
greasy hat, he showed a remarkably fine forehead--well filled, strong,
square--but he had the weakest and most sensual mouth I ever saw. There
was scarcely a sign of a lower jaw, and the chin retreated sharply from
the lip to the emaciated neck.