“What for?”
“For our kit.”
“Where is it?”
“Over in New York, in West street.”
“It can wait, can't it?”
“It can, but it won't,” interposed Nick, stepping forward.
“Look a-here, Mr. Gentleman George, I didn't jine no confounded gang to be made a prisoner in a bole like this, see?
“If my pard an' me don't come an' go when we please, an' as we please, we both leave now, even ef we have ter fight our way out, see?”
“What's your hurry for your things?”
“Well, w'at money we've got sewed up in 'em, fur one thing, and one thing's enough, see? Go on, 'Rattler; git 'em.”