Early in the afternoon of the fourth day, Thomas received a telephone
call from Killigrew.
"Hello! That you, Webb?"
"Yes. Who is it?"
"Killigrew. Got anything to do to-night?"
"No, Mr. Killigrew."
"You know where my club is, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, be there at seven for dinner. Tell the butler and the
housekeeper. Mr. Crawford has a box to the fight to-night, and he
thought perhaps you'd like to go along with us."
"A boxing-match?"
"Ten rounds, light-weights; and fast boys, too. Both Irish."
"Really, I shall be glad to go."
"Webb?"
"Yes."
"Never use that word 'really' to me. It's un-Irish."
Thomas heard a chuckle before the receiver at the other end clicked on
the hook. What a father this hearty, kindly, humorous Irishman would
have made for a son!
In London Thomas' amusements had been divided into three classes.
During the season he went to the opera twice, to the music-halls once a
month, to a boxing-match whenever he could spare the shillings. He
belonged to a workingmen's club not far from where he lived; an empty
warehouse, converted into a hall, with a platform in the center, from
which the fervid (and often misinformed) socialists harangued; and in
one corner was a fair gymnasium.
Pages:
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133