“There, I thought it was a do,” said the first constable roughly. “What d’yer mean by gammoning me in this way? Come along.”
“No, sir, please. Pray give me time,” I cried. “Don’t send me back. Please, Mr Revitts, I have run away from Mr Blakeford, and if I am sent back to Rowford he’ll kill me. I know he will.”
“’Old ’ard, Smith,” said the big constable. “Look here, boy. What did you say? Where did you come from?”
“Rowford, sir. Pray don’t send me back.”
“And what’s the name of the chap as you’re afraid on?”
“Mr Blakeford, sir.”
“I’m blest!”
“What did you say, sir?”
“I said I’m blest, boy.”
“Then you do know him?” said the first constable.