"Rather," said Jack, dizzily. "That's my cap isn't it?"
Yards away was Jack's cap, and Raffles brought it. His face was white—white above a bit. There was a clean cut through the brim, and a neat, straightforward tear-out of an inch or so of the front just above the crest.
"Well," said Raffles, looking narrowly at that business-like damage. "All I can say is you're lucky."
"Lucky! Yes," said Jack. "I suppose I'd better go. Let's have the thing. An inch lower down, and I'd have had that piece of barrel in my head—or through it. It wants thinking over."
"I suppose, sir, you're going to——"
"Oh, the cash you mean! Eh?"
"Yes, that was my meaning."
"Your cash will be all right, man. Come down for it on Friday—can't you?"
"How if I can't, young shaver?" said Raffles of Rotherhithe.
"Then do without it! Anyhow, I'm going now—I'm too sick."