“Yes, he has; he has gone up the street with the sergeant; but every now and then he looks back at this window; but perhaps that’s to see me.”
“Why, Peter, what harm can that marine do you?” inquired Mrs Chopper.
“A great deal; he will never be quiet until he has me taken up, and then what will become of my poor father?” continued Joey, with the tears running down his cheeks.
“Give me my bonnet, Peter. I’ll soon find out what he is after,” said Nancy, leaving the window. She threw her bonnet on her head, and ran downstairs.
Mrs Chopper in vain endeavoured to console our hero, or make him explain—he did nothing but sit mournfully by her side, thinking what he had best do, and expecting every minute to hear the tramp of Furness (for it was he who had recognised Joey) coming up the stairs.
“Mrs Chopper,” at last said Joey, “I must leave you, I’m afraid; I was obliged to leave my former friends on this man’s account.”
“Leave me, boy! no, no, you must not leave me—how could I get on without you?”
“If I don’t leave you myself, I shall be taken up, that is certain; but indeed I have not done wrong—don’t think that I have.”
“I’m sure of it, child; you’ve only to say so, and I’ll believe you; but why should he care about you?”
“He lived in our village, and knows all about it; he gave evidence at—”