“Gingerbread!” echoed Tom, in a voice of scorn. “You see yere. If you split I’ll split you. Yere, ain’t this prime?”
Tom thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and pulling out his store of gold and silver, spread his treasures on the bed. Bob’s eyes began to glitter, and his face turned white.
“Oh, Tom,” he gasped, “you’re a thief.”
“I ain’t,” said Tom. “It’s Jill’s, and what’s Jill’s is mine. Ain’t I her brother? Think on her saving it all up, and us being pinched and ’arf starved. Mean, I calls it, despert mean. Well, she can save some more. She ain’t never goin’ to see this swag agin.” Bob began slowly and cautiously to wriggle himself out of bed. He slipped on his trousers and his little jacket with trembling haste.
“Are we to be pals in it?” he said, looking at Tom. “Ef I don’t split, are we to go pals?”
“I don’t mind givin’ yer some on it,” said Tom. “But pals—that means ’arf and ’arf—no thank yer, young un.”
Bob edged himself between Tom and the door of the room.
“Look yere,” he said, “ef yer don’t go arf, I’ll screech out, and Jill ’ull come. I’m atween you and the door, and I’ll screech orful loud, and Jill ’ull come afore you gits down-stairs, so now you knows. It’s ’arf the swag with me, or its none.”
Tom’s eyes shot forth little rays of wrath, but he knew that Bob had a queer obstinate tenacity of his own, and he thought it best to humour him.