He didn’t know whether to turn up on Sunday or not, and if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for Sam and Peter Russet he’d ha’ most likely stayed at home.  Not that ’e was a coward, being always ready for a scrap and gin’rally speaking doing well at it, but he made a few inquiries about Bill Lumm and ’e saw that ’e had about as much chance with ’im as a kitten would ’ave with a bulldog.

Sam and Peter was delighted, and they talked about it as if it was a pantermime, and old Sam said that when he was a young man he’d ha’ fought six Bill Lumms afore he’d ha’ given a gal up.  He brushed Ginger’s clothes for ’im with ’is own hands on Sunday afternoon, and, when Ginger started, ’im and Peter follered some distance behind to see fair play.

The on’y person outside the Jolly Pilots when Ginger got there was a man; a strong-built chap with a thick neck, very large ’ands, and a nose which ’ad seen its best days some time afore.  He looked ’ard at Ginger as ’e came up, and then stuck his ’ands in ’is trouser pockets and spat on the pavement.  Ginger walked a little way past and then back agin, and just as he was thinking that ’e might venture to go off, as Miss Tucker ’adn’t come, the door opened and out she came.

“I couldn’t find my ’at-pins,” she ses, taking Ginger’s arm and smiling up into ’is face.

Before Ginger could say anything the man he ’ad noticed took his ’ands out of ’is pockets and stepped up to ’im.

“Let go o’ that young lady’s arm,” he ses.  “Sha’n’t,” ses Ginger, holding it so tight that Miss Tucker nearly screamed.

“Let go ’er arm and put your ’ands up,” ses the chap agin.

[Illustration:  “‘Let go o’ that young lady’s arm,’ he ses.”]

“Not ’ere,” ses Ginger, who ’ad laid awake the night afore thinking wot to do if he met Bill Lumm.  “If you wish to ’ave a spar with me, my lad, you must ’ave it where we can’t be interrupted.  When I start on a man I like to make a good job of it.”

“Good job of it!” ses the other, starting.  “Do you know who I am?”

“No, I don’t,” ses Ginger, “and, wot’s more, I don’t care.”

“My name,” ses the chap, speaking in a slow, careful voice, “is Bill Lumm.”

“Wot a ’orrid name!” ses Ginger.

“Otherwise known as the Wapping Basher,” ses Bill, shoving ’is face into Ginger’s and glaring at ’im.

“Ho!” ses Ginger, sniffing, “a amatoor.”

“Amatoor?” ses Bill, shouting.

“That’s wot we should call you over in Australia,” ses Ginger; “my name is Dick Duster, likewise known as the Sydney Puncher.  I’ve killed three men in the ring and ’ave never ’ad a defeat.”

“Well, put ’em up,” ses Bill, doubling up ’is fists and shaping at ’im.

“Not in the street, I tell you,” ses Ginger, still clinging tight to Miss Tucker’s arm.  “I was fined five pounds the other day for punching a man in the street, and the magistrate said it would be ’ard labour for me next time.  You find a nice, quiet spot for some arternoon, and I’ll knock your ’ead off with pleasure.”