“Oh yes, you do, sir. Don’t he, Mr Burr junior?”
“No,” I said; “and if you ever have the impudence to say so again, I’ll tell Bob Hopley to give you another thrashing.”
The gipsy-looking fellow’s dark eyes flashed.
“He’d better touch me again,” he cried fiercely. “He’d better touch me again. Did you two see?”
“Yes, we saw,” said Mercer. “I say, he did make you cry chy-ike.”
“He’d better touch me again.”
“He will,” I said, “if you go hanging about after Polly Hopley.”
“What, did he tell you that?”
“No,” I said, “we knew well enough. Bob Hopley didn’t say a word. Only called it poaching.”