There is a magic about the sound of a police-whistle. It acts like oil on the most troubled waters. This one brought about an instant lull in the tumult. Glasses ceased to break, voices were hushed, and a moment later out came Mr. Billson, standing not upon the order of his going. His nose was bleeding a little and there was the scenario of a black eye forming on his face, but otherwise there seemed nothing much the matter with him. He cast a wary look up and down the street and sprinted for the nearest corner. And I, shaking off the dreamy after-effects of my encounter with the barman, sprinted in his wake. I was glowing with gratitude and admiration. I wanted to catch this man up and thank him formally. I wanted to assure him of my undying esteem. Moreover, I wanted to borrow sixpence from him. The realisation that he was the only man in the whole wide East End of London who was likely to lend me the money to save me having to walk back to Ebury Street gave me a rare burst of speed. It was not easy to overtake him, for the sound of my pursuing feet evidently suggested to Mr. Billson that the hunt was up, and he made good going. Eventually, however, when in addition to running I began to emit a plaintive “Mr. Billson! I say, Mr. Billson!” at every second stride, he seemed to gather that he was among friends. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said, halting. He was plainly relieved. He produced a murky pipe and lit it. I delivered my speech of thanks. Having heard me out, he removed his pipe and put into a few short words the moral of the whole affair. “Nobody don’t dot no pals of mine not when I’m around,” said Mr. Billson. “It was awfully good of you to trouble,” I said with feeling. “No trouble,” said Mr. Billson. “You must have hit that barman pretty hard. He came out at about forty miles an hour.” “I dotted him,” agreed Mr. Billson. “I’m afraid he has hurt your eye,” I said, sympathetically. “Him!” said Mr. Billson, expectorating with scorn. “That wasn’t him. That was his pals. Six or seven of ’em there was.” “And did you dot them too?” I cried, amazed at the prowess of this wonder-man. “’R!” said Mr. Billson. He smoked awhile. “But I dotted ’im most,” he proceeded. He looked at me with honest warmth, his chivalrous heart plainly stirred to its depths. “The idea,” he said, disgustedly, “of a —— —— ’is size”—he defined the barman crisply and, as far as I could judge after so brief an acquaintanceship, accurately—“goin’ and dottin’ a little —— —— like you!” The sentiment was so admirable that I could not take exception to its phraseology. Nor did I rebel at being called “little.” To a man of Mr. Billson’s mould I supposed most people looked little. “Well, I’m very much obliged,” I said. Mr. Billson smoked in silence. “Have you been back long?” I asked, for something to say. Outstanding as were his other merits, he was not good at keeping a conversation alive. “Back?” said Mr. Billson.