He stopped short, arrested by the excited movements of the butcher’s pipe and by the changed expressions of the rest of the company.
“We—we seen ’im,” the man with the big head managed to say at last.
“We seen ’im all right,” said a voice out of the darkness beyond the range of the lamp.
The baker with the melancholy expression interjected, “I don’t care if I don’t ever see ’im again.”
“Ah!” said the Captain, astonished to find himself suddenly beyond hoping on a hot fresh scent. “Now all that’s very interesting. Where did you see him?”
“Thunderin’ vicious little varmint,” said the butcher. “Owdacious.”
“Mr. Benshaw,” said the voice from the shadows, “’E’s arter ’im now with a shot gun loaded up wi’ oats. ’E’ll pepper ’im if ’e gets ’im, Bill will, you bet your ’at. And serve ’im jolly well right tew.”
“I doubt,” said the baker, “I doubt if I’ll ever get my stummik—not thoroughly proper again. It’s a Blow I’ve ’ad. ’E give me a Blow. Oh! Mr. ’Orrocks, could I trouble you for another thimbleful of brandy? Just a thimbleful neat. It eases the ache....”