And even as he spoke, Jerry caught the words, and repeated them. "The red pocket-book," he shouted. "Do you know where it is? The bill is in it, and I'll buy it off you; oh, yes, I will. Fifty pounds."
Job banged his fist so heavily on the table that the lamp tottered. "I wish I had it now!" he cried. "Fifty pounds-by gum!"
"Have you the bill there?" asked Jerry, taking another drink.
"No; I haven't anything," said Job. "She got it out of me."
"Got what out of you?"
"Why, the red pocket-book--but the bill wasn't in it," he added.
For a moment Jerry stared at the man, then dropped the bottle with a crash on the floor; it broke, and the liquor forming a pool, added its fumes to the smell of the petroleum. "You had that red book!" stuttered Jerry, trying hard to clear his brain. "And it was taken from me! You live here--you were--you, oh, oh!" He sprang from his seat with a roar. "You took it from me!"
"Well," said Job, with a growl, "was you the cove as I fought on that night, and knocked about so?"
"You robber--you thief!" cried Jerry, crouching for a spring. "Give me back my property--the book, the bill!" and he flung himself on the gypsy, who gave a cry of rage.
"I'll crush you like a fly, as I did before!" Job said, and grappled with his visitor.