“Oh, wouldn’t I?”
“Not you,” said Ram, sitting down quietly, and making the lid of his basket squeak. “You know I can’t help it.”
“Yes, you can. You could let me out.”
“Father would kill me if I did. Why, if I let you out, you’d come with a lot o’ men, and there’d be a big fight, and some of our chaps wounded and some killed, and if we didn’t whop you, our place would be all smashed up, and father and all of ’em in prison.”
“And serve ’em right!”
“Ah, but we don’t think so. That’s what you’d do, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.”
“Well, then, I can’t let you go. ’Sides, if I said I would, there’s always Jemmy Dadd, or big Tom Dunley, or father waiting outside, and they’d be sure to nab you.”
“But you might come by night and get me out.”
“No,” said the boy sturdily, “I couldn’t.”