To the charge that he is a polished kind of bully he will reply calmly,
arguing that he is merely of a sensitive and aristocratic temperament
and suffers affront where one more callous would be conscious of none.
He will submit to rudeness from no man, be he premier or potman; yet he
is never vulgarly embroiled.
O’Hagan rarely wears a hat during the day. There is a simple
explanation. At one time in his chequered career, the only presentable
hat he possessed was a crush-hat. It was then that he cultivated the
hatless fashion. This habit of going hatless directly led to his meeting
with Pamela.
Captain O’Hagan was walking along a crowded, shop-lined thoroughfare,
with that swinging stride which he will tell you runs in the family, and
which enabled his ancestor Patrick to secure enrolment in the ranks of
the Musketeers of Louis XIII. Before the door of a newsagent’s
establishment—quite an unpretentious little shop—two men stood. One of
them, elderly, waved a tweed cap—to a girl more than ordinarily pretty
who was making her way up the steps to the roof of a moving motor bus.
The girl carried a neat brown leather case, and, having gained a seat,
turned and waved her handkerchief. The younger man smiled sourly, but
did not join the elder in his waving.
O’Hagan, delighted with the girl’s animation and beauty, halted by the
two, smiling at the retreating figure. Quite mechanically he raised the
hard felt hat from the head of the younger and less enthusiastic man,
and waved it with a vigour even more marked than that of the elder
waver.
He was recalled to the scene from which the girl now had disappeared
amid the motley traffic, by a violent punch in the ribs.
“Blighter!” said a coarse voice. “My ’at!”
Another than Captain O’Hagan had turned quickly, with arm raised to ward
off another possible blow. But with O’Hagan the cult of the unusual is a
creed to which he sacrifices daily. Some difficulty he experienced in
suppressing a gasp, but he turned unhastily, calmly, and looked into the
bright little eyes of the hat’s owner. These were set upon him wickedly,
and a truculent, blue-shaded jaw was thrust forward in menace.
“You’ve properly asked for it,” continued the man, tensely, “and you’re
goin’ to get it!”
“Jem!” protested the older man, fearfully. “Not here——”
Straight from the shoulder a piston stroke was launched at O’Hagan. It
was a blow with brawn to drive it, with science to direct it. It was
aimed—and well—in accordance with ring traditions of the “knock-out.”
But one who takes unwarrantable liberties with unknowns’ hats must be
prepared for reprisals.
O’Hagan is fond of showing his friends the tricks learned of Shashu
Myuku of Nagasaki; he is equally prompt to demonstrate them to others.
Without employing his right hand, which was engaged in holding the felt
hat, he struck down the impending blow (any but a pupil of Myuku must
have endeavoured to strike it _up_), thrust his left foot rapidly
against his opponent’s advanced right shin, and, by a simple process of
natural law the pugilist pitched forward on to the pavement, propelled
by all the force of his own attacking impetus.
Much shaken, and with a rivulet of blood trickling down his nose from a
damaged forehead, he got upon his feet again. Captain O’Hagan
deliberately hurled the bowler far out into the stream of traffic, and
fixed his large eyes upon its white-faced owner.
“One word,” he said, in that tone of suppressed ferocity wholly
inimitable, “and I will throw you after it! You ape!”
The dazed and much-insulted man glanced from a shapeless dark mass
which, prior to the passage of a brewer’s traction-engine, had been a
felt hat, to the face of O’Hagan; and began with his handkerchief to
wipe blood from his wounds. O’Hagan cast his eyes upward to the legend:
“J. Crichton, Newsagent,” and took the elder man by the arm.
“A word with you, Mr. Crichton!” he said, sweeping that astonished old
tradesman into the shop, and ignoring the knot of interested spectators
gathered at the door.
—————
II.
“THE ART OF GENTLE THOUGHT.”
A chair stood by the journal-strewn counter.
“Sit down,” said O’Hagan kindly, “and answer a few questions! Who is
that person whose hat I honoured?”
The newsagent, who momentarily was expecting to awaken from this bad
dream, shook his head ominously.
“It’s Jem Parkins, sir,” he replied, with that respect bordering upon
awe which O’Hagan inspires in the plebeian soul. “He’s got the _Blue
Dragon_ now, but he’s ex-middleweight champion. There’ll be the devil to
pay when he’s pulled hisself together, sir!”
“Reserve your speculations, Mr. Crichton,” said O’Hagan, “and confine
yourself to facts. The young lady on the bus—your daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She takes after her mother.”
Mr. Crichton stared.
“Did you know Polly—Mrs. Crichton, sir?”
“No. I was referring to your daughter’s good looks. She dresses neatly.”
Mr. Crichton had something of the British tradesman’s independent
spirit, and even the awe inspired by O’Hagan’s tremendous presence could
not wholly smother his paternal resentment.
“I’d have you know that Pamela’s a lady, sir! And I’d have——”
“Pamela is quite an unusual name for a girl of the lower classes. In
what way is Parkins interested?”
The mild eye of Mr. J. Crichton smouldered into faint flame.
“The lower classes! The——”
“I asked you a question.”
Mr. Crichton hesitated, glanced around his shop—his _own_ shop—noted
that his pugilistic friend was entering the door with an air of
business-like truculence, and took his elusive courage in both hands.
“I decline to be cross-examined—by you—or—by——”
Mr. Parkins closed the shop-door, bolted it, and pulled down the blue
blind. He began deliberately to remove his coat.
“Half a mo, Mr. C.,” he interrupted in a quivering voice. “Sorry to put
you out, but it’s got to be done. I’ll smash ’im; then you can call for
the police and give ’im in charge!”
O’Hagan raised the monocle swung upon the broad black ribbon, and
holding it at some distance from his right eye, surveyed the speaker.
“I thought I forbade you to address me?” he remarked icily.
Parkins, removing a collar and shirt-front combined, began to whistle.
“I’ll show you comin’ buttin’ in and runnin’ after respectable girls!”
he announced hoarsely. “_Blighter!_”
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