“Come, come, Dawes, you’re wanted, and you are my prisoner.”
“What for? I aint done anything. It’s a lie, I aint your prisoner, and don’t intend to be.”
He sprang out of bed and glared round the room like a wild beast.
“Get away, will you?” cried he. “If you don’t—” he paused suddenly, and made a hideous grimace, which he intended for a look of defiance.
“Wall, stranger,” said Shearman, “it’s no good hollering. You’re cornered—aint got a ghost of a chance. The game’s up, you’d better go quietly.”
“Who are you, I should like to know; and what business have either of you here?” cried the “smasher,” making a hideous grimace, which he intended to be a look of defiance.
“If you are going to ride rusty,” observed Mr. Wrench, “say so, and we shall know what to do.”
“Perhaps you will first of all tell me what you have come here for? I aint done nuthin’ as I know of.”
“Well, that is a matter of opinion. You are charged with passing bad money—with ‘smashing,’ and you are my prisoner.”
“It’s a lie. I aint passed any bad money for ever so long, and so you may take your change out of that, Mr. Wrench.”