“Thrue for ye,” cried a big burglarious-looking Irishman, “sure there’s honour ’twixt the likes o’ you an’ me, Trumps, but that gen’lem’n an’t a thief!”
“That’s so, Bill,” exclaimed another man, with bloodshot eyes and beetling brows; “an’ it’s my opinion that as the cove hain’t got no browns ’e ought to contribute ’is checker suit to the good o’ the ’ouse. It would fetch summat.”
The interest in the missionary’s words seemed to be passing away, for at this point the language and looks of some of the company made David Laidlaw feel that he was indeed in a ticklish position. The threats and noise were becoming louder and more furious, and he was beginning to think of the hopeless resource of using his fists, when a loud exclamation, followed by a dead silence, drew every eye to the door.
The girl to whom the keeping of it had been intrusted had neglected her duty for a moment. In letting one of the company out she incautiously stood looking through the open chink into the dark passage. That instant was seized by two tall and powerful limbs of the law, in cloth helmets and with bull’s-eye lanterns, who pushed quietly but quickly into the room. Shutting the door, one of the constables stood with his back against it, while the other advanced and examined the faces of the company one by one.
There was dead silence, for the constables were men of business, not of words, while the criminals, some of whom became grave as well as silent, seemed very anxious not to attract undue attention.
The particular person “wanted,” however, was not there at that time. On coming to David, who met the glare of the bull’s-eye with his grave smile, the constable looked surprised.
“I think, young man,” he said in a low voice, “you’ve come to the wrong shop here.”
“That’s my business,” replied David coolly.
“Well, you know best of course, but if you’ll take my advice you’ll come out of this place along with us.”
“Na. I’ll bide where I am. I’ll trust them.”