“Don’t—don’t talk about it,” cried Distin, piteously. “There, come along, you must be rested now.”
“Look here,” cried one of the lads, shrilly; “if you tak’ us up to Greytrop we’ll tell all about it.”
Vane gave another bump.
“What’s the good of that, stupid,” he said. “Mr Distin would tell first.”
“Yes,” said the young fellow firmly; and as Vane looked at his determined countenance, he felt as if he had never liked him so well before; “I shall tell first. Come what may, Vane Lee, you shan’t have it against me that I did not speak out openly. Now, come.”
“Not yet,” said Vane, stubbornly. “I’m resting.”
There was a pause, and one of the gipsy lads began to snivel.
“Oh, pray, good, kind gen’l’man, let us go this time, and we’ll never do so any more. Do, please, good gen’l’man, let us go.”
“If you don’t stop that miserable, pitiful, cowardly howling, you cur,” cried Vane so savagely that the lad stared at him with his mouth open, “I’ll gag that mouth of yours with moss. Lie still!”
Vane literally yelled this last order at the lad, and the mouth shut with a snap, while its owner stared at him in dismay.