“Thought you’d never come,” he cried, upon catching sight of the gipsy; “been waiting here till I was so hungry that I couldn’t hold out any longer, so thought it best to stick up a score to you.”
“Gammon and all,” said Rawton. “They don’t give credit at these places.”
“I aint paid for nuffin as yet.”
“Then I will,” said Rawton, who forthwith put a shilling on the counter and called for a pint of the best Burton, paying for that and what his friend had had at the same time.
When the two entered one of the carriages of the next London train their tongues were unloosed, for there were no other persons besides themselves in the compartment, and they had purposely forborne talking about the business that had brought them down before the barmaids and loiterers in the refreshment bar. All restraint was, however, now thrown off.
“Well,” said Cooney, “how did you work it—all right?”
“Right as the mail. Never did anything so neatly in my life. Went out and collared a boy for throwing the stone.”
“Oh scissors! What a spree!”
“Yes, and did the indignant to rights, I can tell you. The old clerk took it all in like a gudgeon, and was mighty civil and obliging.”
“Oh! he’s a very decent old boy.”