“Speak out, Jack!” said the latter, coolly; “you needn’t be afraid.”
“Who’s afeard?” growled Jack, sourly.
“Oh! not you, Jack, of course,” said the other; “you’ve a heart above that sort of thing, you know.”
“You’re gallus witty, you are,” growled Jack, below his breath.
“Well, speak up, Jack; the gentlemen would like to hear what you have to say, I’m sure.”
“Look ye here, then, Master Falkner,” said Jack, in a hoarse whisper, that sounded as harsh and grating as the sharpening of a saw,—“look ye here; that there young chap’s been hanging about D. Wragg’s crib for months past.”
“To be sure he has, Jack—to be sure; we know that; and what does it mean? Pigeons, or rats, or dogs, or something of that sort, eh?”
Mr Falkner, sergeant of police, half closed his eyes as he spoke, and thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails, as, with head on one side, he waited to hear further news.
“Pigins—dorgs! Not a bit of it. He warn’t arter them,” said Screwby. “Gents like him don’t have no ’casion to come our way; ’cos why? Lots o’ dealers comes arter them, and’ll bring ’em any number o’ rats, or dorgs either, for the matter o’ that. You knows better nor that, Master Falkner. If I was to tell you as I come down here to make these here gents’ minds easy, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
“Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Jack Screwby,” said the sergeant, “no, I should not.”