There is seldom any hurry-skurry among these gentry, for they know the worst, and are made up to it.
“Come, give me the money.”
And so they did, the whole ten shillings, and the ticket to boot.
“No kail in the police cell to night, Mary Anne,” said I, “any more than in the church, where the ministers eat all the shewbread.”
Mary Anne looked into my face, and burst out into a laugh,—such is the seared and hardened temperament of thieves; and it is as well that the punishment-mongers should know this, that they may endeavour to devise some other and more effectual mode of reclamation.
“So you had no pity for the poor old woman?”
“The whining hag had more money than I had,” was the reply.
“You mean more than the five shillings you got for the stolen plaid?” said I.
“Who said it was stolen?”
“The lady in Gilmour Place you stole it from,” said I. “I have been looking for you to settle that small matter for three days.”