“Now look here,” he said pulling out a notebook and pencil, like the auctioneer’s, only smaller, and seeming as if he were going to take an inventory of my small person. “Now, look here,” he repeated, moistening the point of his pencil, “you told Joe Smith you knowed me, and I never set eyes on you afore.”
“Please, sir,” I said hastily, “I told him I know Mr Revitts, who’s in the police.”
“Yes, and you said you had run away from Rowford and a Mr Blake—Blake—What’s his name?”
“Blakeford, sir,” I said despondently, for it seemed that this was not my Mr Revitts.
“Blakeford. That’s right; and he ill-used you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s a little fair man, ain’t he, with blue eyes?” And he rustled the leaves of his notebook as if about to take down my answer.
“No, sir,” I cried eagerly; “he’s tall and dark, and has short hair, and very white teeth.”
“Ho! Tall, is he?” said the constable, making believe to write, and then holding out his pencil at me. “He’s a nice, kind, amiable man, ain’t he, as wouldn’t say an unkind word to a dorg?”
“Oh no, sir,” I said, shuddering; “that’s not my Mr Blakeford.”