“Perhaps.”
“Well, speak out; don’t be afraid. Have you got ‘the thing?’”
“Doun’t know what you mean.”
“Ah! not an old hand, I perceive. You were never here before?”
“No.”
“And don’t know what to say?”
“No.”
And the bashful man again turned his gloomy eyes to the ground, and didn’t know what to do with those hands of his, which were not made for kid—perhaps for skin of another kind. And shouldn’t this hardened student have been sorry for a man in such confusion; but he wasn’t—nay, he had no sympathy with his refinement.
“Why, man, don’t you speak out?” he said impatiently.
“There’s some one coming through the Square there,” was the reply, as the man looked furtively to a side.