“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.” “I’d sooner ’ave it knocked off now,” ses Bill; “I don’t like waiting for things.” “Thursday arternoon,” ses Ginger, very firm; “there’s one or two gentlemen want to see a bit o’ my work afore backing me, and we can combine bisness with pleasure.” He walked off with Miss Tucker, leaving Bill Lumm standing on the pavement scratching his ’ead and staring arter ’im as though ’e didn’t quite know wot to make of it. Bill stood there for pretty near five minutes, and then arter asking Sam and Peter, who ’ad been standing by listening, whether they wanted anything for themselves, walked off to ask ’is pals wot they knew about the Sydney Puncher. Ginger Dick was so quiet and satisfied about the fight that old Sam and Peter couldn’t make ’im out at all. He wouldn’t even practise punching at a bolster that Peter rigged up for ’im, and when ’e got a message from Bill Lumm naming a quiet place on the Lea Marshes he agreed to it as comfortable as possible. “Well, I must say, Ginger, that I like your pluck,” ses Peter Russet. “I always ’ave said that for Ginger; ’e’s got pluck,” ses Sam. Ginger coughed and tried to smile at ’em in a superior sort o’ way. “I thought you’d got more sense,” he ses, at last. “You don’t think I’m going, do you?” “_Wot?_” ses old Sam, in a shocked voice. “You’re never going to back out of it, Ginger?” ses Peter. “I am,” ses Ginger. “If you think I’m going to be smashed up by a prize-fighter just to show my pluck you’re mistook.” “You must go, Ginger,” ses old Sam, very severe. “It’s too late to back out of it now. Think of the gal. Think of ’er feelings.” “For the sake of your good name,” ses Peter. “I should never speak to you agin, Ginger,” ses old Sam, pursing up ’is lips. “Nor me neither,” ses Peter Russet. “To think of our Ginger being called a coward,” ses old Sam, with a shudder, “and afore a gal, too.” “The loveliest gal in Wapping,” ses Peter. “Look ’ere,” ses Ginger, “you can shut up, both of you. I’m not going, and that’s the long and short of it. I don’t mind an ordinary man, but I draw the line at prize-fighters.” Old Sam sat down on the edge of ’is bed and looked the picture of despair. “You must go, Ginger,” he ses, “for my sake.”