'Yes. It's the thing, and no mistake,' said Bernard eagerly. 'His name is Stingo; only we are not quite sure whether he is a bull-terrier or a short-haired King Charles.'
Lance dropped back, wriggling in suppressed convulsions, as he demanded, 'Where did you steal this unmistakeable animal?'
'I bought him,' said Bernard, with a certain magnificence intended to be overawing.
'Then where did you steal the money?'
'Travis,' said Bernard, who considered Christian names unworthy of male lips. 'He always used to tip me a sovereign; and Ben Bowyer, the dog-fancier, said Stingo was worth thirty shillings any day, only he let me have him for eight and six, because he wanted to sell off his stock.'
'I thought as much. And Sims keeps him for you?'
'At ninepence a week; but the brute is at me for ever, and says it is twelve weeks.'
'Pray, how were you to raise ninepence a week? By waiting on Providence or turning coach-wheels?'
'I had some then; and Froggy sometimes gives one half-a-crown, but the old beast hasn't lately, just because I wanted it—nor Travis either, bad luck to him!' quoth this grateful young man. 'I put them all off, making sure of him; and now he's cut, and never tipped me at all! It's an abominable sell, and they are all at me.'
'All! what more? Have it out,' grunted Lance, with a sound of bodily pain in his tone such as would have silenced any one above ten years old, and a bored contemptuous manner that would have crushed any attempt at confidence—if he had been the right person to confess to.