“Oh, you’re such peaching fellows, one can hardly speak with you. Would you like the young sprig’s five-pound note? He can’t afford to lose it, and my conscience is queezy.”
“Ah, ha!” cried the constable, “Jean Brash’s conscience!”
“Aye, man, even Jean Brash’s conscience,” replied she, a little grandly. “A queer thing maybe, but still a thing. Aye, man, I would tell you where the five-pound note is if you would keep me out of the gleg’s claws.”
“Well, I will,” replied he, getting into official cunning. “Tell me where the note is, and I will do my best for you.”
“Ah, I know you won’t, and so I can’t trust you with an admission which you would use against me; but suppose I were to make a sign, eh? A nod is as good, you know, as——”
“Well, well, give me the nod to lead me to the note.”
“And you will say nothing? Well, who’s your tailor?” she cried, laughing.
“What has that to do with the note?” responded the man.
“Something that may astonish you,” said she, as she still held his arm, and fumbled about the cuff of his coat. “He gives you a deep cuff. Very convenient as a kind of wee pawn.”
“Nonsense. Get off. You are trifling.”