“Go agen then, and stop,” growled Ike irritably. “Swep’ all away, my lad, by the road-police, and now—”
“There’s a man standing in the dark here under this hedge, Ike,” I whispered. “Is—is he likely to be a foot-pad?”
“Either a footpad or a policeman. Which does he look like?” said Ike.
“Policeman,” I whispered. “I think I saw the top of his hat shine.”
“Right, lad. You needn’t be scared about them sort o’ gentlemen now. As Old Brownsmith says, gas and steam-engines and police have done away with them, and the road’s safe enough, night or day.”
We jolted on past the policeman, who turned his bull’s-eye lantern upon us for a moment, so that I could see Basket’s ribs and the profile of Ike’s great nose as he bent forward with his arms resting on his legs. There was a friendly “good-night,” and we had left him about a couple of hundred yards behind, when, amidst the jolting of the cart and the creaking of the baskets overhead, ike said suddenly:
“Seem to have left that chap behind, or else he’s gone to—”
“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”
“Why, if he ar’n’t there agen!” cried Ike savagely. “Look here, it worries me. I’d rayther have a dog behind barking than a chap singing like that. I hates singing.”
“I’ve been to Paris and I’ve been to Dover.”