The hour was late—approaching towards midnight, and the street in which he was stationed was pretty nigh deserted. Presently he heard the measured tread of a policeman, and the gipsy not being desirous of an official interview with the arm of the law, skulked away and hid himself in a dark alley until the constable had passed on.
“I must find some place to crawl to, but where?” exclaimed Bill. “That’s easier asked than answered. Mercy on me! how my teeth do chatter! I wish the night was over; but, lor’, what’s the use of wishing that? Morning will bring me no relief.”
Presently he heard footsteps. He guessed shrewdly enough that they were not those of a policeman. He grasped a thick cudgel he had in his hand and said, “Now for it!”
A well-dressed gentlemanly-looking person was advancing towards him with stately tread. He was a handsome man, in the prime of life, and was evidently a favourite of fortune; yet the expression of his face was evil.
The gipsy sprang forward, and grasped him by the collar of his coat.
“Quick! haul over your cash!” he exclaimed, “or I will knock you senseless. Do you hear? I’m driven to desperation, and money I must have.”
“Well,” exclaimed the gentleman, “you are either a madman or else one of the most audacious fellows I ever met with.”
“I am no madman. If you refuse or attempt to utter a single cry for assistance I’ll brain you.”
“You are a most extraordinary man.”
“Your money!—I am starving. Do not drive me to desperation. I am not to be trifled with. Do not drive me to commit murder.”