“Willingly,” answered Vitriol Bob: “and we’ll drink out of the same pot to make people believe we’re friends.”
They accordingly entered a gin-shop and shared a pot of porter at the bar; after which they resumed their walk, passing down the City Road. They kept abreast, and preserved a deep silence,—each watching the movements of the other—the Doctor in the hope of being able to give his companion a sudden thrust with his knife—and Vitriol Bob for the purpose of preventing the escape of his enemy.
It was ten o’clock when they came within sight of the Bank of England; and as they passed under its solid wall, Jack Rily wondered whether he should be alive to keep an appointment which he had with Green for eleven next morning in order to have some more of his notes changed by that individual.
“All the money in that there place, old feller, won’t save one or t’other of us from death before many hours is gone by,” observed Vitriol Bob, in a low and ferocious tone.
“You must make the best use of your time, then,” returned Jack; “since you’ve got a presentiment that it’s so near.”
“No—it’s you that had better say your prayers,” retorted the miscreant. “But what’s the use of keeping both your hands in your pockets? If you think you’ll be able to draw out your knife suddenly and give me a poke under the ribs, you’re uncommonly mistaken.”
“I wasn’t dreaming of such a thing,” answered Jack Rily, for the first time showing a slight degree of confusion in his manner.
“It’s false, old feller,” said Vitriol Bob: “you’ve got the clasp-knife open in your pocket—I know you have. The gas-lights is strong enough about there to enable a sharp-sighted chap, like me, to twig all that goes on.”
“It’s you that speaks false,” returned Jack Rily, still keeping his hands in his pockets.
And, again relapsing into silence, they pursued their way.