“They took it, and stole my breeches to carry it off in, ’cause they said they’d promised you not to take the basket. They stole my whiplash, too, fer to tie the dog with; I couldn’t help myself; an’ now you’ve cut it!”
“Where’ve they gone?”
“To Peternot’s; he hired ’em to help him carry the money home.”
Then Jack saw how completely he had been outwitted and betrayed. He did not rave at his ill-luck; but to Mr. Chatford, who now approached with Mr. Pipkin, he told what had happened, and in a tone of unnatural calmness appealed to him for redress. “For if you can’t do anything for me,” he said, turning his pale face and tearless eyes at the empty basket, “I shall get my pay out of the old squire some way, if I live! Tell him he’d better look out!”
“There, there!” said the deacon, soothingly. “Don’t make any foolish threats. I think it’s most unwarrantable conduct on Peternot’s part, and I’ll see him about it.”
“Go over there right now! why can’t ye?”
“My boy, remember it’s Sunday.”
“He didn’t remember it was Sunday when he got my money away!” said Jack.
“Very true,” said the deacon. “But nothing will be gained by going to him now. To-morrow I’ll see about it.”
“To-morrow!” echoed Jack, with a fierce laugh.