He felt devilish fit. He would have liked to run a mile or two and
jump a few gates. He wished five or six starving beggars would
come along; it would be pleasant to give the poor blighters money.
It was too much to expect at that time of night, of course, but it
would be rather jolly if Jess Willard would roll up and try to
pick a quarrel. He would show him something. He felt grand and
strong and full of beans. What a ripping thing life was when you
came to think of it.
'This,' he said, 'is perfectly extraordinary!' And time stood
still.
A sense of something incongruous jarred upon Bill. Something
seemed to be interfering with the supreme romance of that golden
moment. It baffled him at first. Then he realized that he was
still holding Eustace by the tail.
Dudley Pickering had watched these proceedings--as well as the
fact that it was extremely dark and that he was endeavouring to
hide a portly form behind a slender bush would permit him--with a
sense of bewilderment. A comic artist drawing Mr Pickering at that
moment would no doubt have placed above his head one of those
large marks of interrogation which lend vigour and snap to modern
comic art. Certainly such a mark of interrogation would have
summed up his feelings exactly. Of what was taking place he had
not the remotest notion.
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