“Course yer don’t; but yer’ve got to like it, and so I tell yer. Smell that.”
He placed his fist within an inch of Tom’s nose, and the boy could not help smelling it, for it was strong of pulling onions, or peeling them with his nails.
“Now, then, how much money have yer got with yer?”
“Only another sixpence,” said Tom a little huskily.
“Hand it over, then, and look sharp about it, ’fore it’s the worse for yer.”
He caught hold of Tom’s jacket as he spoke, and gave it a shake, making his dog sidle up and growl, “Hear that? You give me more of yer sarce, and I’ll set the dorg at you, and see how yer like that. Now, then, where’s that sixpence?”
“I’ll give it to you if you’ll leave go,” said Tom quietly. “Look here, Pete, I don’t want to quarrel with you.”
“That yer don’t. I should like to see you. Give it here.”
“I want to be friends with you, and try to do something for you.”
“Yes, I knows you do. You’ve got to bring me a shillin’ every week, or else I’ll give it yer, so as you’d wish yer’d never been born. I’ll larn yer. Give me that sixpence.”