“Well,” said Cooney, “this one is about the rummest start I ever knew. Coming all these miles for the purpose of throwing a stone at the window of a church. Why, when you come to look at it in a serious light it seems ridiculous, don’t it?”
“Oh! as for that, in a manner of speaking, it is ridiculous; but what of that? It has answered our purpose. You don’t want more. I suppose we’ve done what we came to do. It’s a matter of duty—leastways as far as I’m concerned, and as to you a trip in the country, and a sniff of the fresh air won’t do you any harm.”
“It’s the dicky birds and the trees and the green grass as does it. Makes you preach like a parson, and talk like a book—blowed if they don’t; but I’m glad you’ve brought it in all right. Why, Lord bless us, I wonder what has become of Charles Peace—haven’t set eyes on him for years.”
“He got into a little bit of a mess at Sheffield,” observed the gipsy, “and had to do seven years’ ‘stretch.’ Since his conviction I haven’t seen anything of him.”
“Nor don’t know what he’s up to, I s’pose?”
“No, haven’t the slightest notion. Poor Charlie! He was always straight and square with me. Many people run him down, but I speak of a man as I find him.”
“Same here. He was always right enough; but Lord bless you, things aren’t a bit like what they used to be—you can’t trust anybody nowadays.”
“That’s true enough, Cooney—you’re right there, old man.”
“But, I say,” observed the gipsy’s companion after a pause; “what might be yer little game at this blessed old church? You haven’t come all the way for nuffin, that’s quite certain.”
“For nothing-why of course not, ’taint likely.”