“It is evident you have done something wrong, and the police are on your track. Doubtless my husband has brought them hither. Fly! for mercy’s sake hesitate no longer!”
“Hammer away, my sweet pets,” cried Bill, as he heard the thumps at the door. “My name’s Walker.”
He crept through the window, hung by his hands for a moment from the sill, and dropped safely on the roof of the outhouse. From here he slid down into the yard. Then he looked about him for a moment or two, not knowing very well what next to be at. He felt pretty certain that some of the neighbours would soon observe his movements from the backs of the surrounding houses, and therefore prompt action was required in his present emergency, for he did not intend to be taken if he could help it.
He jumped over the wall and reached another yard, which was paved. He soon discovered he was in close proximity to a stable.
A man was cleaning some harness in the yard, where he now found himself, and while thus occupied he looked at the gipsy in an inquiring and, it might be, a suspicious manner.
“All right, mate,” said Bill. “You’ve no call to be afeard. I’ve just given a bloke a prop in the eye, and another on the sneezer. We’ve had a bit of a scrimmge, and the bobbies are after me.”
“Who have you been mugging, then?” said the ostler, with a laugh.
“Why, a doctor.”
“What name?”
“Bourne.”