“So did I.”
“Ah! forty—four thousand pounds.”
“The lump of stuff you left here hocussed one—it was a toss-up—luck was on my side—that one carried them—slept like death—long while hunting—found them under his pillow at last.”
“Well done! and we fools were always beat at it. Sixty—one—two—five—seven. Seven thousand pounds.”
“Seven thousand pounds! Who would have thought it? This is a dear job to me.”
“Say a dear job to them and a glorious haul to you; but you deserve it all, ah!”
“Why, you fool,” cried Meadows, “do you think I am going to keep the men's money?”
“Keep it? why, of course!”
“What! am I a thief? I, John Meadows, that never wronged a man of a penny? I take his sweetheart, I can't live without her; but I can live without his money. I have crimes enough on my head, but not theft, there I say halt.”
“Then why in the name of Heaven did you take them at such a risk?” Crawley put this question roughly, for he was losing his respect for his idol.