“He took our rope off the cart in Covent Garden this morning,” I cried, feeling angry now.
“Why, he ain’t been out o’ the court this morning,” said the fellow sharply; “have yer, Micky?”
“No, father,” said the boy.
“Jest up, ain’t he, missus?” continued my captor, turning to the heavy-eyed woman.
“Yes, just up,” said the woman in a low mechanical voice, and then with more animation, “Let him go, Ned.”
“You mind yer own business,” said the fellow savagely; then to me, “Now, then, d’yer hear that?”
“I don’t care; he did,” I said firmly. “He stole our rope—that’s it, you give it me directly.”
“What! that?” he cried. “You’re a nice un, you are. Why, that’s my rope, as ’longs to my donnerkey-cart. Don’t you come lying here.”
“I tell you that’s our rope, and I saw him steal it,” I cried, growing stronger now. “You let me go, and give me my rope, or I’ll tell the police.”
“Why, you never had no rope, yer young liar!” he cried.