"Milligan!" shouted Killigrew, as he sighted one of the club's
promoters.
Milligan recognized his millionaire patron and pushed to his side.
After due explanations, Thomas was liberated and the real culprit was
forced swearing through the press toward the patrol-wagon, always near
on such nights. Eventually the four gained Crawford's box. Aside from
a cut lip and a torn shirt, Thomas was uninjured. If his
fairy-godmother had prearranged this fisticuff, she could not have done
anything better so far as Killigrew was concerned.
"Thomas," he said, as the main bout was being staged, the chairs and
water-pails and paraphernalia changed to fresh corners, "I'll remember
that turn. If you're not Irish, it's no fault of yours. I wish you
knew something about coffee."
"I enjoy drinking it," Thomas replied, smiling humorously.
Ever after the merchant-prince treated Thomas like a son; the kind of a
boy he had always wanted and could not have. And only once again did
he doubt; and he longed to throttle the man who brought into light what
appeared to be the most damnable evidence of Thomas' perfidy.
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