The stallkeeper placed the first finger of his left hand upright against his nose.
“Well, I just ain’t then. What d’ye take me for? A bloomin’ owl? Look ’ere, mister: no kid! Nigh every night some jokers tries to get me away from my stall, so as they can empty it and run off. But I ain’t been in this line nineteen year for nuthin’. No, you go and take yer tale and yer pistols and yer bloomin’ burglars somewhere else. ’Ear?”
“As you please,” said Mr. Penfound, with dignity. “Only I’ll wait here till a policeman comes, or someone. You will then learn that I have told you the truth. How soon will a policeman be along?”
“Might be a ’our, might be more. There ain’t likely to be no other people till four-thirty or thereabouts; that’s when my trade begins.”
Mr. Penfound was annoyed. His hunger, exasperated by the exquisite odours of the stall, increased every second, and the prospect of waiting an hour, even half an hour, was appalling.
Another idea occurred to him.
“Will you,” he said to the stallkeeper, “kindly put one of those sausages into my mouth? I daren’t loose these revolvers.”
“Not till I sees yer money.”
Hunger made Mr. Penfound humble, and he continued—
“Will you come round and take the money out of my pocket?”