The swart man reverted to his formula. He was good enough to say he liked the look of Denton, thought he had stood up "amazing plucky. On'y pluck ain't no good—ain't no brasted good—if you don't 'old your 'ands.
"Whad I was going to say was this," he said. "Lemme show you 'ow to scrap. Jest lemme. You're ig'nant, you ain't no class; but you might be a very decent scrapper—very decent. Shown. That's what I meant to say."
Denton hesitated. "But—" he said, "I can't give you anything—"
"That's the ge'man all over," said the swart man. "Who arst you to?"
"But your time?"
"If you don't get learnt scrapping you'll get killed,—don't you make no bones of that."
Denton thought. "I don't know," he said. He looked at the face beside him, and all its native coarseness shouted at him. He felt a quick revulsion from his transient friendliness. It seemed to him incredible that it should be necessary for him to be indebted to such a creature.
"The chaps are always scrapping," said the swart man. "Always. And, of course—if one gets waxy and 'its you vital. . ."
