“Ho, that’s yer little game, is it?” said the policeman. “Move on, d’yer hear? Pop off.”
“I will,” said Blake. “I’ll never do it again. I promise faithful never to do it again. I’ve found a fren’.”
“Do you know this covey?” asked the policeman.
“Deny it, if yer dare,” said Blake. “Jus’ you deny it, that’s orl, an’ I’ll tell the parson.”
“Slightly, constable,” I said. “I mean, I’ve seen him before.”
“Then you’d better take ’im off if you don’t want ’im locked up.”
“’Im want me locked up? We’re bosum fren’s, ain’t we, old dear?” said Blake, linking his arm in mine and dragging me away with him. Behind us, the policeman was shunting the spectators. Oh, it was excessively displeasing to any man of culture, I can assure you.
How we got along Shaftesbury I don’t know. It’s a subject I do not care to think about.
By leaning heavily on my shoulder and using me, so to speak, as ballast, drunken Blake just managed to make progress, I cannot say unostentatiously, but at any rate not so noticeably as to be taken into custody.
I didn’t know, mind you, where we were going to, and I didn’t know when we were going to stop.