“Give us the shillin’ first.”
“Then you won’t fetch the ladder.”
“Oh yes, I will—honour bright.”
Sam unwillingly produced another shilling.
“There, that’s the last I’m going to give you,” he whispered. “Now, then, fetch the ladder quickly.”
Chapter Forty Four.
He uttered his low, sniggering, malicious laugh again, and without a word went off towards the back, disappearing into the darkness, and then, unseen by Sam, crawling over the wall like some great dark slug, leaving the London boy alone with his thoughts, as he kept close up to the mill, and gazed toward the cottage, dreading moment by moment an interruption from that direction.
His thoughts were not pleasant company. For there he was upon his uncle’s property, feeling that not only had he come down there in the character of a thief, but circumstances had forced him into taking for confederate about as low-typed and blackguardly a young scoundrel as there was for twenty miles round. He had been forced to bribe the fellow heavily for him, and in addition to place himself entirely at his mercy, so that in the future, if he was successful in getting the papers, this scoundrel would be always coming upon him for money, and getting it by threats.