“You call me Ned. Ned Hawkins,” replied the burly man. “It ain’t the name, but it’s one I got a fancy for. Edward Hawkins, that’s me, at your service, gen’lemen.”
“We don’t want another Edward,” objected Sir Roland. “Heron’s name’s Edward, and we shall only get ’em mixed up.”
“Well, I don’t mind being Frederick—to oblige the company,” conceded Mr Hawkins.
“Hawkins will do,” replied the Viscount. “You’re on the High Toby, aren’t you?”
“Me?” exclaimed Mr Hawkins virtuously. “Cross me heart if—”
“That’ll do,” interrupted the Viscount. “Blew the hat off your head on Shooter’s Hill six months ago. Now I’ve got a piece of work for you to do. What do you say to twenty guineas, eh?”
Mr Hawkins recoiled. “Dang me if ever I works with a flash cull again, that’s what I says!”
The Viscount lifted his pistol. “Then I’ll hold you, while my friend there goes for a constable.”
“You dassn’t!” grinned Mr Hawkins. “You get me put in the Whit, and I takes his peevy lordship with me—ah, and how’ll you like that?”
“Pretty well,” said the Viscount. “He’s no friend of mine. Friend of yours?”