"Yes, but it's more than my life's worth to disturb him. Go away, quietly, there's a dear!"
"All right; just you tell him, when you go in, to come home soon. I didn't want to see him, you old fool. I only wanted to know where he was. Oh, what a liar you are, Flick!"
And giving him a playful pinch on his withered cheek, she walked away, singing.
In the back room of Old Flick's dwelling was assembled a quartette, each member of which bore upon his face a certificate for the gallows. It was composed of Jim Pizey, Black Sam, Ned Rutt, and the Tenderhearted Oysterman. Spirits and glasses were on the table, and the room was filled with smoke.
"That's arranged, then," said Jim Pizey; "we meet at Gisborne this day fortnight?"
His companions nodded.
"Until then," he continued, "try quietly to find out where Dick Handfield has got to."
"If I knew where that milk-faced woman of his was," said Ned Rutt, with a dark look, "I'd soon work it out of her."
"Strike me blind!" exclaimed the Tenderhearted Oysterman. "You don't mean to say you'd hurt a woman!"
"Wouldn't I?" sneered Ned Rutt. "You wouldn't hurt a woman, of course, Oysterman?"