"They'd better not let me catch--"
"H'sh! H'sh!" breathed Mr. Purnip, tilting his hat and wiping his bald,
benevolent head.
"I forgot," said the other, with something like a sigh. "No more
fighting; but suppose somebody hits me?"
"Turn the other cheek," replied Mr. Purnip.
"They won't hit that; and when they see you standing there smiling at
them--"
"After being hit?" interrupted Mr. Billing.
"After being hit," assented the other, "they'll be ashamed of themselves,
and it'll hurt them more than if you struck them."
"Let's 'ope so," said the convert; "but it don't sound reasonable. I can
hit a man pretty 'ard. Not that I'm bad-tempered, mind you; a bit quick,
p'r'aps. And, after all, a good smack in the jaw saves any amount of
argufying."
Mr. Purnip smiled, and, as they walked along, painted a glowing picture
of the influence to be wielded by a first-class fighting-man who refused
to fight. It was a rough neighbourhood, and he recognized with sorrow
that more respect was paid to a heavy fist than to a noble intellect or a
loving heart.
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