"Why then we're on the spiriting lay—a flash blowen—a genty mort, Jerry."
"Aha, that should mean shiners, plenty o' lour, Benno?"
"Fifty apiece near as nothing."
"Here's game as I'm a flash padder. What more, cove, what more? Let's hear."
"Not me, Jerry—there's one a-coming as will tip you the lay—an old pal, Jerry, a flaming buck o' the high pad, a reg'lar dimber-damber, a—hist! 'Tis him at last, I think, but ha' your popps ready in case, Jerry."
Here Benno arose and crossing a little unsteadily to the door stood there listening: after a while came a knock, a muffled voice, and, opening the door, he admitted three men. The first a great, rough fellow who bore one arm in a sling, the second a little man, point-de-vice from silvered spurs to laced hat, yet whose elegant appearance was somewhat marred by a black patch that obscured one eye; the third was the obsequious Joseph, but now, as he stood blinking in the candle-light, there was in his whole sleek person an air of authority and command, and a grimness in the set of smooth-shaven jaw that transfigured him quite.
At sight of him Jerry sprang up, nearly upsetting the table, and stood to stare in gaping astonishment.
"'Tis Nick!" he cried at last, "Galloping Nick, as I'm a hell-fire, roaring dog! 'Tis Nick o' the High Toby as hath diddled the nubbing-cheat arter all, ecod! Ha, Nick—Nicky lad, tip us your famble and burn all, says I!"
Joseph suffered his hand to be shaken and nodded.
"Drunk as usual, Jerry?"