"Where d' yer think I come from—Paris? 'Tain't no bisness of yourn, any'ow."
"What are you doing here?"
"Shan't tell yer; wot's more, lady, I'll knife yer if yer don't lemme go; s'elp me, I will!" and the boy kicked again.
Mrs. Parsley shook him.
"You horrible little creature! how dare you speak like that to me? We want no vagrants here, so if you don't take yourself off out of this village I'll have you put in jail, do you understand?"
"Oh, my eye, 'ere's a bloomin' shaime," wailed the boy. "I ain't a-doin' no 'arm, mum. Father's 'ere, too, and I'm only a-goin' arter 'im. 'E's got a carawan 'e 'as, an' 'e's perfect rispect'bl'. Le' go o' me, will yer? I don't want t' 'urt yer!"
Mrs. Parsley was about to question him further, when, with a sudden wriggle, he escaped from her clutches, leaving the collar of his coat in her hand. Without even a look behind, he dodged up the lane, emitting sounds which Mrs. Parsley could only take to be derisive, and disappeared in the waning twilight. She would have followed, but as Pegwin demanded her attention, she was reluctantly obliged to forego the chase. In the meantime, like a hound on a scent, the boy had darted off in the direction Miriam had taken, and, having caught up with her, spoke to her.
"'Ere," he said hoarsely, "I want to speak to yer!"
"Shorty!" she exclaimed.
She recognised the creature at once. It was Shorty, the pilot-fish of the Jabez shark!