Mish’s brow was drawn into a “V” between his calf-licks; he turned a menacing face over his shoulder.
“Will ye stick to your own business?” he said savagely—“wi’out ye want to come in wi’ us——?”
“How do you know he had a hundred pounds? The man’s mad!”
“He come down th’ chimley jabbering it right eniff. Look here; if ye want to know, we fotched him down th’ same as they fotch th’ sweeper-lads down. If ye don’t know how that is, ye can look at th’ grate.”
Monjoy glanced at the grate; it was a litter of white straw-ashes.
“Ay, did you?” said Monjoy grimly. Murgatroyd was turning to his tally again; he set his hand on his shoulder and spun him round as if he had been a skittle. Mish drew back the hand that held the knife.
“Ye’ve been warned——”
“We’ll talk about warnings in a minute. Listen, you, and every man here. If a finger’s laid on that man in the corner it shall be the beginning of a nasty business. That’s my promise.”
Murgatroyd had greenish hazel eyes; they were on Monjoy’s like those of a cat. Suddenly he made an exclamation of contempt.
“On him?” he sneered.—“Nobody wants to touch him. But if ye’ll speak up now to how mich your share is ye shall ha’ your chance at Cope when th’ lots is drawn.”