“There ain’t an inch of room up there,” protested the stranger. “Lord, I don’t take up much space! Squeeze up, coves!”
“Full-up! Try the boot!” said the farmer.
“Cast your winkers over me, cull: I don’t take up no more room than what a bodkin would!” pleaded the stranger. “Besides, there’s a set of flash young coves on the roof. I’d be mortal afraid to sit with ’em, so I would!”
Sir Richard, casting an experienced eye over the man, mentally wrote him down as one probably better known to the Bow Street Runners than to himself. He was not surprised, however, to hear Miss Creed offering to squeeze up to make room, for he had, by this time, formed a very fair estimate of his charge’s warmheartedness.
Pen, edging close to Sir Richard, coaxed the farmer to see for himself that there was room enough for one more passenger. The man in the catskin waistcoat grinned at her, and hopped into the coach. “Dang me if I didn’t think you was a flash cull too!” he said, squeezing himself into the vacant place. “I’m obliged to ye, young shaver. When coves do Jimmy Yarde a service he don’t forget it neither.”
The lawyer, who seemed to have much the same opinion of Mr Yarde as that held by Sir Richard, sniffed, and folded his hands tightly on the box which he held on his knees.
“Lord bless you!” said Mr Yarde, observing this gesture with a tolerant smile, I ain’t no boman prig!”
“What’s a boman prig?” asked Pen innocently.
“There, now! If you ain’t a werry suckling!” said Mr Yarde, almost disconcerted. “A boman prig, young gentleman, is what I trust you’ll never be. It’s a cove as ends up in Rumbo—ah, and likely on the Nubbing Cheat afore he’s much older!”
Much intrigued, Pen demanded a translation of these strange terms. Sir Richard, having pondered and discarded the notion of commanding her to exchange places with him, lay back and listened with lazy enjoyment to her initiation into the mysteries of thieves’ cant.