“Didn’t I tell you, no,” said Ike, “unless that there’s one coming on behind. How much money have you got, lad?”
“Two shillings and sixpence and some halfpence.”
“And I’ve got five and two, lad. Wouldn’t pay to keep a blood-horse to rob us, would it?”
“No,” I said. “Didn’t they hang the highwaymen in chains, Ike?”
“To be sure they did. I see one myself swinging about on Hounslow Heath.”
“Wasn’t it very horrible?”
“I dunno. Dessay it was. Just look how reg’lar old Bonyparty goes along, don’t he—just in the same part of the road? I dessay he’s a-counting all the steps he takes, and checking of ’em off to see how many more he’s got to go through.”
“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”
“I say, I wish that chap would pass us—it worries me,” cried Ike pettishly. Then he went on: “Roads warn’t at all safe in those days, my lad. There was footpads too—chaps as couldn’t afford to have horses, and they used to hang under the hedges, just like that there dark one yonder, and run out and lay holt of the reins, and hold a pistol to a man’s head.”
“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”