“Ow d’you know ‘e’s gone without lookin’?”
“By a kind o’ h’inkstink one dewelopes by bein’ in the police force.”
“D’you know wot I’m thinkin’?—Yer funky.”
“Funky, h’am I? H’awright—h’it’s h’all over between us. Never tell me h’again that you loves me.”
They had been talking in loud voices from the start—quite loud enough to warn any burglar. Now that they had quarreled their voices cut the still night air in anger. Not a word was lost.
Suddenly they paused. “Wot’s that?” Grace asked the question in a sharp whisper.
“Footsteps or I’m no cop.”
Peter heard the click of Mr. Somp’s lantern; it must have struck against his buttons as he bent to examine. “Footsteps. Someone’s been a-climbin’ this ‘ere wall.”
“Well, ain’t yer goin’ ter do nothin’?”
“You stand there, Grice, while I go for’ard. The chap may fire h’on us. Good-bye, Grice. H’if anythin’ should ‘appen, remember I died a-doin’ o’ me dooty.”