“Ay,” put in a young man, who had the reputation of being the smartest “crow” (the “look-out” man of a burglars' gang) in London—“'fishers of men,' as the parson says.”
The snuffling imitation of a Methodist preacher was good, and there was another laugh.
Just then a miserable little cockney pickpocket, feeling his way to the door, fell into the party.
A volley of oaths and kicks received him.
“I beg your pardon, gen'l'men,” cries the miserable wretch, “but I want h'air.”
“Go to the barber's and buy a wig, then!” says the “Crow”, elated at the success of his last sally.
“Oh, sir, my back!”
“Get up!” groaned someone in the darkness. “Oh, Lord, I'm smothering! Here, sentry!”
“Vater!” cried the little cockney. “Give us a drop o' vater, for mercy's sake. I haven't moist'ned my chaffer this blessed day.”
“Half a gallon a day, bo', and no more,” says a sailor next him.