“Glory!  Glory!” ejaculated a long, thin youth, and, making a dash for the door, disappeared.

“He’ll know me better in time,” said Mr. Billing.  “Why, I wouldn’t hurt a fly.  I want to do good to people; not to hurt ’em.  I’ll have a pint,” he added, turning to the bar.

“Not here you won’t,” said the landlord, eyeing him coldly.

“Why not?” demanded the astonished Mr. Billing.

“You’ve had all you ought to have already,” was the reply.  “And there’s one thing I’ll swear to—­you ain’t had it ’ere.”

“I haven’t ’ad a drop pass my lips began the outraged Mr. Billing.

“Yes, I know,” said the other, wearily, as he shifted one or two glasses and wiped the counter; “I’ve heard it all before, over and over again.  Mind you, I’ve been in this business thirty years, and if I don’t know when a man’s had his whack, and a drop more, nobody does.  You get off ‘ome and ask your missis to make you a nice cup o’ good strong tea, and then get up to bed and sleep it off.”

“I dare say,” said Mr. Billing, with cold dignity, as he paused at the door—­“I dare say I may give up beer altogether.”

He stood outside pondering over the unforeseen difficulties attendant upon his new career, moving a few inches to one side as Mr. Ricketts, a foe of long standing, came towards the public-house, and, halting a yard or two away, eyed him warily.

“Come along,” said Mr. Billing, speaking somewhat loudly, for the benefit of the men in the bar; “I sha’n’t hurt you; my fighting days are over.”

“Yes, I dessay,” replied the other, edging away.

“It’s all right, Bill,” said a mutual friend, through the half-open door; “he’s got a new ’art.”

Mr. Ricketts looked perplexed. “’Art disease, d’ye mean?” he inquired, hopefully.  “Can’t he fight no more?”

“A new ’art,” said Mr. Billing.  “It’s as strong as ever it was, but it’s changed—­brother.”

“If you call me ‘brother’ agin I’ll give you something for yourself, and chance it,” said Mr. Ricketts, ferociously.  “I’m a pore man, but I’ve got my pride.”

Mr. Billing, with a smile charged with brotherly love, leaned his left cheek towards him.  “Hit it,” he said, gently.

“Give it a smack and run, Bill,” said the voice of a well-wisher inside.

“There’d be no need for ’im to run,” said Mr. Billing.  “I wouldn’t hit ’im back for anything.  I should turn the other cheek.”

“Whaffor?” inquired the amazed Mr. Ricketts.

“For another swipe,” said Mr. Billing, radiantly.

In the fraction of a second he got the first, and reeled back staggering.  The onlookers from the bar came out hastily.  Mr. Ricketts, somewhat pale, stood his ground.

“You see, I don’t hit you,” said Mr. Billing, with a ghastly attempt at a smile.

He stood rubbing his cheek gently, and, remembering Mr. Purnip’s statements, slowly, inch by inch, turned the other in the direction of his adversary.  The circuit was still incomplete when Mr. Ricketts, balancing himself carefully, fetched it a smash that nearly burst it.  Mr. Billing, somewhat jarred by his contact with the pavement, rose painfully and confronted him.