"Bah!" says Creech, with a sneer; "you'd be dragging your pockets along the ground if you'd been along of us to-night."
"Did you take a coach?" says I.
"A coach!" replied Creech. "Such a coach as you never saw—just guineas a-dropping off the box into your mouth, and none to deny you. Eight hundred and thirty golden pictures, you young fool, all stamped of his Majesty; and more to that."
"More?" says I, very innocent.
"And it mightn't be a little box, Dick—only a little box," says Creech, in a wheedling voice; "but a queen's ransom to its belly;" and without more ado, but as if anxious to strut upon his dungheap, he put his hands between his legs, and fetching out a casket, threw it at me. "Catch it," he cried; "open it and feast your eyes upon it. There's glamour enough there to turn a stomach sour."
'Twas a rare lot of jewels, for sure, and it was small wonder that her ladyship was in such a taking. But Creech, in the exultation of drink and success, could not hold his tongue, which it was not my desire that he should. "Where's your damned independence now?" he chuckled. "What sort of figure upon the lay does Galloping Dick cut atween here and London?"
But if I was to have it forth of his fingers I would have it openly, and so I says plumply, "I have a fancy for that box, Dan," says I.
Creech leaned over, and set his dirty finger against his nose, poking out his tongue.
"Yes," says I, in a careless fashion; "I have taken a main liking to it. I want that, Dan."