“I should narrate what has passed, in fair and temperate language, I hope.”
“I beg you,” said Antony Cowlrick, earnestly, “to do me a great favour. Do not drag me before the public to-day. Nay, nor to-morrow. Give me three days’ grace. It will be of service to me, and may help the cause of justice.”
The last words were spoken with an air of hesitation.
“If I promise to do this—providing my Chief consents, and I think he will—you must allow me in return to become better acquainted with you.”
“Pick up what scraps you can, my literary Autolycus. Examine me well. Describe my appearance, manners, and bearing. Say that I belie my looks, and that I do not speak exactly like a ruffian. In all that, shrewd as you may be, you can only see the outside of me. Understand, if you please, that I shall not help you.”
“All right. Where do you intend to sleep to-night?”
“God knows! I do not.”
“How are you going to live? Have you a trade?”
Antony Cowlrick held out his hands.
“Do these look like hands accustomed to hard work?”