“It weer owd Simmy Slee as made it wuss, wi’ cootting o’ them bands,” said Big Harry. “We should ha’ been at wuck again if it hadn’t been for that.”
“Quick, lads!” cried a man, running in. “Sim Slee and Barker’s broke out o’ th’ owd shop, and the police are coming down here.”
“Theer, parson,” said Stockton, with a bitter smile; “th’ game’s oop.”
For answer, the vicar pointed to the windows, and in less than a minute the room was empty, though there would have been plenty of time to escape by the door, for the one policeman coming on the mission to see if Slee had made for the meeting-place of his party did not hurry his footsteps, partly from reasons of dignity, and partly because he was alone.
Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.
A Faithful Lover.
The announcement was quite correct. Sim Slee and his companions had broken away through the ceiling, dislodged the tiles, and escaped; and when the vicar reached home, he found Mrs Slee waiting up for him, trembling and pale, while her eyes were red with weeping. She clung to him hysterically, and asked if the news was true, and that her husband was in prison.
“They came and told me the police had got him,” she sobbed. “Ah, he’s a bad one sometimes, but he’s my maister, sir, he’s my maister.”