“Come away, Jem, quick!” whispered Don.
“Here, what’s your hurry, my lads?” said the youngish man in rather an authoritative way. “Come and have a glass of grog.”
“No, thank ye,” said Jem; “I’ve got to be home.”
“So have we, mate,” said the hoarse-voiced man who had asked for a light; “and when a horficer asks you to drink you shouldn’t say no.”
“I knew it, Jem,” whispered Don excitedly. “Officer! Do you hear?”
“What are you whispering about, youngster?” said the man in the pea jacket. “You let him be.”
“Good-night,” said Jem shortly. “Come on, Mas’ Don.”
He stepped forward, but the young man hurried on the men, who had now closed in round them; and as Jem gave one of them a sturdy push to get off, the thrust was returned with interest.
“Where are you shovin’ to, mate?” growled the man. “Arn’t the road wide enough for you?”
“Quiet, my lad,” said the officer sharply. “Here, you come below here and have a glass of grog.”