“Now ain’t it wexin’?” he whispered, appealing to his small friend.
“Aggrawatin’ beyond endoorance,” replied Jim, with looks of sympathy.
“Wot is to be done?” demanded the Bloater.
“Invite a Bobby to come an’ help us,” suggested Jim.
“H’m! an’ stop ’em in their game, p’raps, at a pint w’ere nobody could prove nothink against ’em, besides bringin’ on ourselves the purlite inquiry, ‘Wot are you up to ’ere?’”
Little Jim looked disconsolate and said nothing, which, as the Bloater testily remarked, was another of his witty rejoinders.
“Well, then,” said Jim, “we must just wait till the fire breaks out an’ then bust upon ’em all of a ’eap.”
“H’m! much they’d care for your bustin’ on ’em. No, Jim, we must risk a little. Never wenter, never win, you know. Just you go round by the other end of the street and creep as close as you can; you’re small, you know, an’ won’t be so easy seen as me. Try to make out wot they’re up to and then—”
“Then wot?”
“W’y, come back an’ let me know. Away!” said the Bloater, waving his hand with the air of a field-marshal.