"Nay, nay, you don't come over me, young master. Soft speeches ain't no good for a tough un like me. When I goes out I locks ye in, and if ye holler till ye bust, 'tis no good, not at all."
"I didn't mean that. 'Tis dull as death lying on these rotten boards with nothing to do; bring me the morning's paper and I'll thank you."
"Well, that's harmless enough, to be sure. Gi' me twopence and I'll buy ye a Courant."
"'Tis only a penny."
"True; t'other penny's for me."
Harry smiled and felt for his purse. It was gone.
"Plucked clean, eh?" chuckled the man. "Trust your Wapping swab for that. All the same you shall have the paper."
He returned with the morning's Courant, already well thumbed. Harry ran his eye over the meagre half-sheet; there was nothing that interested him except the announcement of Lord Blandford's death at Cambridge.
"The duke has lost his heir," he thought. "He was a little older than myself. Perhaps it is my turn next."
The day wore on. In the afternoon the door opened and a stranger entered along with the custodian. By his cut Harry guessed him to be a lawyer's clerk. His movements were soft and insinuating; his face was wreathed into an artificial smile.