“Strange h’as it may seem ter yer, Master Peter, I don’t fancy the h’inside o’ me own keb. Know too much abart it. There wuz a bloke I druv ter the ‘orspital t’other day wrapped up in blankits. ‘E died o’ smallspecks. But anythin’ ter h’oblidge a friend.”
The door closed behind them.
“‘Ere, darn wiv that winder, young ‘un. I feel crawlly wivout air. Sye, don’t yer tell yer pa wot I said abart me keb.”
Peter seized the cabman’s hairy hand and held it firmly; he had to anchor him somehow. “Has Grace told you anything about my Uncle Waffles?”
“Swiped somefing, didn’t ‘e?”
“Yes.”
“Wise bloke. Honesty’s been my ruin. H’I allaws returns the numbrella’s wot’s left in me keb. I might ‘a been a rich man; there’s lots o’ money in numbrellas.—— Wot did ‘e swipe? ‘Andkerchiefs or jewels?”
“He swiped money; but he meant to give it back.”
Mr. Grace made an explosive sound, followed by innumerable gurglings, like the blowing of a bung out of a beer barrel. “Yer make me larf. Wot d’yer taik me for? I ain’t no chicken—— Oh, me tripes and onions! He meant to give it back! Ha-ha-ha!—— Now come, Master Peter, no uncle o’ yours ‘ud be such a fool as that.”
“Well, anyway, he didn’t give it back and they’re after him.”