"Ole lady, I'll finger dat pewter—I will," said Slung-shot. "We laid yer man out—we did. Dat cool hundred, ef yer please."
And while Herman and Godiva glided into the shadows, the two ruffians recounted the incidents of the night, in their peculiar patois; the Madam interrupting them with questions, at every step of the narrative.
The story of these savages of city life, (and we believe that only the English and American cities produce such ruffians in a perfect state of brute-and-devil completeness,) reduced to the briefest compass, and stripped of all its oaths, read thus:—They had followed Dermoyne and Barnhurst all night long. Entering the house of Barnhurst, (the door had been left ajar,) they had found Dermoyne seated on the sofa, his eyes fixed upon a book. As one struck him with the slung-shot, the other extinguished the light, and a brief but terrible contest took place in the dark. Finally, they had borne the insensible form of Dermoyne from the house, and flung him into the gutter of a dark and deserted street.
"An' dere he'd freeze to death, ef he gets over de dirk and de slung-shot—he would," added the thick-set ruffian.
"And where have you been ever since?" asked the Madam, whose little eyes sparkled with joy.
"Gittin' drunk," tersely remarked Dirk.
"The book—you have it?" she said eagerly.
To which Dirk replied, in his own way, that if he had, he hoped his eyes and liver might be made uncomfortable for an indefinite length of time.
"Fact is, it slid under de sofar in de muss, an' I couldn't' find it in de dark."
The Madam burst into a transport of fury, and in her rage administered the back of her hand somewhat freely to the faces of Dirk and Slung. "Out of my sight—out of my sight! Fools! Devils! That book was all that I sent you after!" and she fairly drove them from the room. They were heard shuffling in the passage, and murmuring and cursing as they went down stairs.