Brancepeth nodded; he sat down on a low chair, took Jack on his knee and kissed him.
“He won’t pinch my calves any more,” said Jack with a sense of relief.
“He won’t do anything any more, poor devil,” said his friend, who sincerely mourned him.
Jack was silent, trying to realize the position and failing. “Cuckoopint’s mine now, ain’t he?” he said suddenly.
Cuckoopint was Cocky’s cob.
“Everything’s yours, you lucky little beggar,” said Brancepeth. “But don’t flatter yourself they’ll let you do as you like. Ronnie and the bishop between ’em will keep you uncommon tight.”
Jack did not attend to this foreboding: his mind was full of Cuckoopint.
“Were you with him when he died, Jack?” asked Brancepeth, who felt a morbid interest in Cocky’s end. Jack nodded.
“Yes; he said ‘damn’; they told me to go on the bed and kiss him, but he wouldn’t; he said ‘damn.’”
“Poor devil!” sighed Brancepeth with a twinge in his conscience like neuralgia.