“I’ll do my best,” returned the man of many letters.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. Not if I know it,” cried a voice from the further end of the room.
The speaker was the landlord of the establishment. He had short black crisp hair, a swivel eye, and his features were certainly not handsome.
“Well I am blest, this beats cockfighting,” cried the burglar. “What business is it of yourn, Sam?”
“I’ll make it my business,” returned the landlord. “It shan’t be done, I tell ye. I wont have anything of the sort take place in my house. We all know what we are, but that’s no reason a younker like that, who in all likelihood is gently bred and born, should be ruined for life.”
“There’s an end of the matter, Sam,” said the Smoucher. “I for one wont have any hand in the business.”
The tables were suddenly turned. The landlord’s word was law; he held the life and liberty of his customers in his hand, and if he chose to round on them it would go hard with all.
Miss Stanbridge was unprepared for this issue. She took the boy by the hand and led him out of the room.
“I hope you’ll have a better office when you come here again,” cried the landlord as she descended the stairs.
She made no reply, but went into the room below.