“Perhaps it is,” said Mercer, laughing.
“Nay, not it, my lad,” said the man, with a sly-looking smile. “If it was a fezzan I shouldn’t bring it to you.”
“Why not? I should like to stuff it.”
“Daresay you would, my lad, but if I did that, somebody would stuff me.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Mercer. “You’d look well in a glass case, Magg.”
“Shouldn’t look well in prison,” said the man, laughing. “Why, what’d become o’ the Doctor’s taters?”
“Oh, bother the taters. I say, what about that gun, Magg?”
“What about what gun?” said the man softly, as he gave a sharp glance round.
“Get out! You know.”
“Whish!” said the man. “Don’t you get thinking about no guns. I wouldn’t ha’ showed it to you if I’d known. Why, if folks knew I had a gun, there’d be no end of bother, so don’t you say nothing about it again.”