“I didn’t make my peepers, and it’s no fault of mine if their colour don’t please you. I know one or two shady customers who have black and brown peepers.”
“You’re a deal too artful for my money, and you see I don’t want to be led into a scrape, which is easier for a cove to get into than out of by long chalks.”
“Look here, then,” cried Alf, pulling out the hare from under his smock; “I snared this, and have had a thrashing for it. I’ll sell you this if you like, and then one will be as low in the dirt as ’tother in the mire.”
The bird-catcher stared with surprise, and exclaimed quickly—
“Didn’t I say as how you was fly? I’m blessed if you are not too good for a God-forgotten place like this.”
“I want to leave it, and I will, please the pigs,” returned the lad. “I don’t care what I do so long as I haven’t to go back to Stoke Ferry Farm.”
“Is that where you come from?”
“Yes.”
“Who and what are you?”
“I’m an orphan, and have been brought up by Mr. Jamblin.”