"Yes. And for half an hour's work."
"Wouldn't I? Why the old man only gave me a hundred for swearing against Poynter—Hello! what's that?" he added, starting to his feet, and looking toward the bushes where Poynter was concealed.
The latter had given a sudden start, as he caught the hint dropped by Sprowl, that could only refer to the charge of murder that had been brought against him. But who was this Meagreson, or the "old man?"
"Bah!" grunted Polk, lazily turning his head, "don't get scart at your own shadow. I heard it too, but it's only my horse."
"Sure?"
"Thunder! yes. Come. I'm in a hurry. Will you earn the money?"
"That depends," replied the other, as he reseated himself, "upon what it is."
"Well, I know you'll never peach—"
"Of course not!"
"I know it," dryly added Redlaw; "it wouldn't be healthy. But I want you to be sick when the crowd starts to-night, and then after about two hours—say about midnight—you must get up and set the house yonder, on fire."