"No, Jeremiah; it is in the Post-office Savings-bank."
"Curse it! You can't get it out to-day. What's the good of it when I want it now—this very minute?"
"What for, Jeremiah?"
"That's my business. Go on about the old thief. He pretended to be very sweet, did he, and tried to pump you? What's that?"
He clutched his mother, shaking like one in an ague. They were in a narrow lane, and a boy in their rear had uttered a loud shout, and had thrown a stone at a bird. The boy ran on, and the colour returned to Jeremiah's face.
"Jeremiah!" whispered Mrs. Pamflett.
"Well?"
"You have been doing something wrong. You are in trouble."
"Yes, I am in trouble. I have been robbed—swindled—tricked and ruined by a damned scoundrel. If I had him here now, in this quiet lane, with no one near, his life wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase. There, the murder's out! What did I say?"
"You said, 'the murder's out.'"