“Don’t ye hear?” screamed the man, still addressing the bear. “How dare ye come here?—Eh?”
“Spy!—Villain!” cried Gray, drawing from his breast the same knife with which he would have stabbed Ada to the heart.
“Hilloah!—Hilloah!” cried the man. “Do you hear, my Popsy, what he calls ye?”
The bear commenced a low growling, and displayed a formidable row of blackened fangs at Jacob Gray.
“Who and what are you?” shrieked Gray to the man.
“Barbican Tibbs, the bear warden, but common people calls me Tipsy Tibbs, and nothink else.”
“What in the name of hell brought you here?” cried Gray.
“Oh! I’m confidential,” replied the man, “and I don’t mind telling you.”
“Quickly then, quickly.”
“Why, you see they say as there isn’t to be allowed more than three bear wardens in Westminster, and as I’ve only just come from Canterbury, I makes faces and a parsecutor.”