"No. Young Bourne's head is on his shoulders, more or less. Get on."
"Well, we opened the ball with a little bunny-shootin', for he couldn't stand Warmint's workin' among the rats. He shoots moderate straight, so I doctored his cartridges, or he'd have cleared out the bank. Not more than two in the half-dozen, sir. And then he couldn't understand it. What might Corker say to the bunnies, sir?"
"Oh, a thrashing, perhaps, and a stringing up for the rest of the term."
"We went to the Blue Cow on wet days. Billiards, beer, and 'baccy, Mr. Acting, was the true bill there. What's the law on those fancy articles?"
"A thrashing for first course, and et ceteras which you wouldn't understand."
"Well, he's earned 'em. We couldn't do any betting on the horses, since the Lincolnshire Handicap is not in sight yet, but he fluttered a little on the Sporting Club matches; and he was lucky—more than ordinary."
"You didn't wing him there, then?"
"Nothing to speak of. He may have dropped half a sov. altogether, but I doubt it."
"Then, Raffles, you're a fool. Do you think I brought you down here to be moral instructor to young Bourne, you grey old badger? Couldn't you bag an innocent of sixteen or so? Besides, what the deuce do you mean by tipping me the wink as Bourne and I used to get on our 'bikes'? You always did it, and I thought you were winding up the youngster hand over hand."
"Them winks," said Raffles, diplomatically, "was meant to show that I was moving—moving slow, but sure. You've observed, Mr. Acting, yourself, as 'ow the young shaver had a head on 'is shoulders."