“He’ve been taking more than his share of the ’bus ever since he got up,” said the black-looking gentleman on the right, pressing closer to Trevor. “Keep yer own side, will yer?”
Very pale and quiet, Richard Trevor edged a little more towards his companion; but this was only the signal for renewed insult, the knifeboard being in possession of the fellow’s friends.
“Where are you a-scrowging to?” said the fellow on Pratt’s left.
And then, acting in concert, he and his companions forced the little barrister closer to his friend.
“Here, let’s speak to the driver,” said Trevor, quietly; but there was a dull red spot in each cheek.
“No, no!” said Pratt. “It’s not much further; don’t let us have a row.”
“Mind your pockets, then,” muttered Trevor.
“Ah, just as I thought,” said the fellow who had been ringleader throughout. “They’re a talking about pockets—button up, gents.”
Here followed a roar of laughter, and a few more witticisms of a similar character were fired off. Then, seeing how patiently the two friends bore it all, a fresh crowding was tried, and one of the most offensive of the fellows called out to the man in velveteens—
“Why don’t you leave off, Barney?”