“Yes as to that—but,—”
“Well, what more do you wish? Don’t be unreasonable—joint me with a notched cleaver if I don’t think you are the most comfortable cove as I knows, and lots of money and nothing for to do but to melt it down into all sorts o’ strong drinks. I calls that being in heaven, I does.”
“It’s something,” said Britton.
“Something? I believe you it is. Why, if you was an angel, what more could you have, I should like to know?”
“Jacob Gray’s blood.”
“So you will, but you must wait your time. Now I tell you what, Master Britton; you’re like a pig as is going to be stuck—he makes a squalling when he knows as it won’t do no good, and here you’ve been a denying of yourself your proper drink when you know that’ll do no good. Have patience till this ’ere follow as you owes sich a uncommon grudge to, comes in your way again, and when he does, don’t you let him out of arm’s length. Just give him a malleter on the head to stun him, while you fetches me, and then we can cut him up quite comfortable.”
“I was a fool to leave him a moment,” said Britton; “I ought to have known better. The fellow is as crafty as a dozen devils rolled and welded all into one. He has as many shiftings and doublings as a hunted fox.”
“Some animals is very difficult,” said Bond, “to bring to the slaughter. A ring in his nose, and a rope is the very best thing, but it’s difficult to put it on.”
“You are an ass, Bond,” said Britton, “it ain’t a bullock, you idiot, but as crafty a man as ever stepped.”
“Perhaps I is a ass,” remarked Bond. “Birds of a feather they always flocks together, which I take it, is the reason why us two makes such good company, Master Britton.”