“Why, this,” answers the old fellow, cheerfully. “There’s money to be made by doing no such thing. And I don’t carry it all about with me. So, as ’tis late, we’d best talk business at once.”
They moved away toward the seat under the sycamore, and now their words reached me no longer—only the low murmur of their voices or (to be correct) of the elder man’s: for the other only spoke now and then, to put a question, as it seemed. Presently I heard an oath rapped out and saw the bully start up. “Hush, man!” cried the other, and “hark-ye now—”; so he sat down again. Their very forms were lost within the shadow. I, myself, was cold enough by this time and had a cramp in one leg—but lay still, nevertheless. And after awhile they stood up together, and came pacing across the bowling-green, side by side, the older man trailing his foot painfully to keep step. You may be sure I strain’d my ears.
“—besides the pay,” the stranger was saying, “there’s all you can win of this young fool, Anthony, and all you find on the pair, which I’ll wager—”
They passed out of hearing, but turned soon, and came back again. The big man was speaking this time.
“I’ll be shot if I know what game you’re playing in this.”
The elder chuckled softly. “I’ll be shot if I mean you to,” said he.
And this was the last I heard. For now there came a clattering at the door behind me, and Mr. Robert Drury reeled in, hiccuping a maudlin ballad about “Tib and young Colin, one fine day, beneath the haycock shade-a,” &c., &c., and cursing to find his fire gone out, and all in darkness. Liquor was ever his master, and to-day the King’s health had been a fair excuse. He did not spy me, but the roar of his ballad had startled the two men outside, and so, while he was stumbling over chairs, and groping for a tinder-box, I slipp’d out in the darkness, and downstairs into the street.