"It is so; it's the colour—yellow is a mean colour. But he's a terror to go."
"Where?" said Jack, uncivilly; for the man's manner, a mixture of familiarity and servility, had begun to pall on Jack's taste.
"Why, there ain't a better, quicker, neater dawg in all London after the rats than Warmint. He holds the record south the Thames."
"Is there a record then for rat killing? How is it done?"
"Turn a sack o' long tails on to the floor and let the dawg among them. He works against time, of course."
"Have the rats any chance of getting away?"
"No fear."
"Ugh!" said Jack, looking at the mongrel with intense disgust.
"Is time for twenty—but I say, Mr. Bourne, if you like I'll bring a bag o' rats down, and you can see for yourself. While the other gentleman, Mr. Acting, is with the Coon, we can bring it off in the barn."
"Man alive, no!" said Jack, with another spasm of disgust; "but if you've any other plans, Raffles, of killing an hour or so whilst Hill makes speeches, trot 'em out. I'm sick of pottering round his yard like an idiot. Are you coming with the Coon again?"