“Ay, and he meant business too,” continued the first speaker, “for the gent began to bluster, and say, ‘How dare you!’ and ‘I’ll give you in charge;’ and then he calls for a policeman; and then ‘Tak’ howd o’ my sister,’ says the big fellow.”
“Ay, that was it,” said the ticket-collector. “‘Tak’ howd,’ just like a Yorkshireman.”
“George there catches the girl, as was half-fainting; and as there was getting quite a crowd now, the bluff fellow tightens his grip, brings Mr Gent down on his knees, and gives him such a thrashing with a stout ash-stick as would have half killed him, if we hadn’t interfered; and Thompson come up and outs with his book. ‘Here,’ he says, just like one of the regular force; ‘I’ll take the charge.’”
“When,” said the second guard, “up jumps my gentleman, and made the cleanest run for it, dodging through the crowd, and out through the ticket-office, you ever saw.”
“Ay,” said the ticket-collector; “and he run round so as to get to the waterside, and over Charing Cross Bridge.”
“And did Thompson take up the countryman?”
“No,” said the guard. “He gave his name out straightforward—William Cressy, Rayford, Berks. ‘I’m there when I’m wanted,’ he says. ‘This here’s my sister as that chap was stealing away, and I’ve thrashed him, and I’ll do it again if ever we meets.’”
“And then the crowd gave a cheer,” said the ticket-collector.
“And Thompson put his book in his pocket,” said the second guard.
“And the countryman walked the girl off to a cab, put her in, jumped in himself, and the crowd cheered again; and that’s about all.”