XXXII
Bill Rann called for Josh early the next morning, and they strolled down Old Jago Street in close communion.
'Are you on for a job?' asked Bill. ''Cos I got one cut an' dried—a topper, an' safe as 'ouses.'
'Wot sort o' job's this?'
'Wy a bust—unless we can screw it.'
This meant a breaking-in, with a possibility of a quieter entrance by means of keys. It was unpleasantly suggestive of Josh's last exploit, but he answered: 'Awright. Depends, o' course.'
'O, it's a good un.' Bill Rann grinned for no obvious reason, and slapped his leg to express rapturous amusement. 'It's a good un—you can take yer davy o' that. I bin a thinkin' about it for a fortnight, but it wants two. Damme, it's nobby!' And Bill Rann grinned again, and made two taps of a step-dance. 'Wotjer think,' he pursued, suddenly serious, 'wotjer think o' screwin' a fence?'
It was a novel notion, but in Josh's mind, at first flush, it seemed unsportmanlike. 'Wot fence?' asked Josh.
Bill Rann's grin burst wide again. He bent low, with outstretched chin, and stuck his elbows out as he answered: 'Wy, ole Weech!'
Josh bared his teeth—but with no smile—looking sharply in the other's upturned face. Bill Rann, bent nearly double, and with hands in pockets, flapped his arms in the manner of wings, chuckled aloud, and, jerking his feet back and forth, went elaborately through the first movement of the gallows-flap. 'Eh? eh?' said he. ''Ow's that strike ye, ole cock?'