“No, I won’t. I don’t leave this ’ere counter. I know yer dodges.”
“Very well, I will wait.”
“Steady on, governor. You aren’t the only chap that’s hungry.”
Mr. Penfound turned sharply at the voice. It was the elder burglar who spoke, and the elder burglar had faced him and was approaching the stall, regardless of revolvers. Mr. Penfound noticed a twinkle in the man’s eye, a faint appreciation of the fact that the situation was funny, and Mr. Penfound gave way to a slight smile. He was being disobeyed flatly, but for the life of him he could not shoot. Besides, there was no occasion to shoot, as the burglar was certainly making no attempt to escape. The fellow was brave enough, after all.
“Two slabs and a pint o’ thick,” he said to the stallkeeper, and was immediately served with a jug of coffee and two huge pieces of bread-and-butter, for which he flung down twopence.
Mr. Penfound was astounded—he was too astounded to speak—by the coolness of this criminal.
“Look here,” the elder burglar continued, quietly handing one of the pieces of bread-and-butter to his companion in sin, who by this time had also crept up, “you can put down them revolvers and tuck in till the peeler comes along. We know when we’re copped, and we aren’t going to skip. You tuck in, governor.”
“Give it a name,” said the stallkeeper, with an eye to business.
Mr. Penfound, scarcely knowing what he did or why he did it, put down one revolver and then the other, fished a shilling from his pocket, and presently was engaged in the consumption of a ham sandwich and coffee.
“You’re a cool one,” he said at length, rather admiringly, to the elder burglar.