Mr. Billing appeared not to hear, and, taking up his cap, strolled slowly
in the direction of the Blue Lion. It was a beautiful summer evening,
and his bosom swelled as he thought of the improvements that a little
brotherliness might effect in Elk Street. Engrossed in such ideas, it
almost hurt him to find that, as he entered one door of the Blue Lion,
two gentlemen, forgetting all about their beer, disappeared through the
other.

"Wot 'ave they run away like that for?" he demanded, looking round.
"I wouldn't hurt 'em."

"Depends on wot you call hurting, Joe," said a friend.

Mr. Billing shook his head. "They've no call to be afraid of me," he
said, gravely. "I wouldn't hurt a fly; I've got a new 'art."

"A new wot?" inquired his friend, staring.

"A new 'art," repeated the other. "I've given up fighting and swearing,
and drinking too much. I'm going to lead a new life and do all the good
I can; I'm going--"

"Glory! Glory!" ejaculated a long, thin youth, and, making a dash for
the door, disappeared.

"He'll know me better in time," said Mr. Billing. "Why, I wouldn't hurt
a fly. I want to do good to people; not to hurt 'em. I'll have a pint,"
he added, turning to the bar.

"Not here you won't," said the landlord, eyeing him coldly.