"Don't look at me like that; I ain't done nothink."
"He can't come here," said Miriam hurriedly. "Tell him he must not—he dare not. If he leaves London, he is lost!"
"I don't know; I don't know a bloomin' thing about it," said Shorty sullenly. "All I knows is as 'e said 'e wos a-comin' 'ere next week. Goin' to keep 'is 'oliday in the country. An' I don't want no more lip, Miriam, d' y' 'ear? If you'd let Jabez scrag that ole Satan, 'twould 'ave been best for 'im Jabez sez ye're t' meet 'im outside the church 'ere next Friday."
"What! has he been here before then—that is, since I came here?"
"I don't know. That's all 'e sez, an' all I knows. I'm orf for grub I tell yer."
"Shorty!" Miriam detained the boy. "I have always been kind to you."
"Ho yes—you're a good 'un as ever wos."
"Then don't speak of me to anyone about here. Don't say you've seen me; mind, Shorty, not a word."
"I'm fly." Shorty spun a coin like some horrible imp of darkness.
Miriam leaned against the wall of the cottage. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could keep up—she felt giddy and faint. Though on all sides she was environed with perils, it would never do to give way now. She would have to meet Jabez, yes, and fight him—otherwise he would betray her, and she would sink back again into the horrible life which she hoped she had left for ever. It was with a heavy heart and tread that she regained the road, and began to make her way home.