We return now to our friends Mark Breezy, John Hockins, and James Ginger, whom we left in the act of quitting their prison after being the means of obtaining some extension of mercy to an unfortunate sufferer whom they left behind them there.
The Interpreter led them up several steep streets, and finally brought them to a court-yard in which were several small houses. Into one of these he ushered them, having previously pointed out to them that the building occupied a prominent position not far from the great palace of the Queen.
“So—if you out goes—git losted—know how to finds you’self agin!”
“Das so,” said Ebony. “You’s a clibber man.”
“Now you stop,” continued the Interpreter, paying no attention to the remark, “for git some—some—vik—vik—vikles—eh?”
“Vikles!” repeated Mark, with a puzzled air.
“Yis—yis—vikles,” repeated the Interpreter, nodding his head, smiling, opening his mouth very wide, and pointing to it.
“P’r’aps he means victuals,” suggested Hockins.
“Yis—yis—jus’ so—vittles,” cried the Interpreter, eagerly, “wait for vittles. Now—good-boy—by-by!” he added, with a broad grin at his blunder, as he left the room and shut the door.
The three friends stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds in silence, looked at each other, and smiled dubiously.