“Draws the rents!” interrupted the boy, with a look of scorn; “screws the rents, you mean.”
“Jus’ so, boy—screws ’em. Ah, ’e is a thief, is lawyer Lockhart.”
“Come, if that’s so, you’ve no occasion to be ’ard on ’im, Trumps, for you’re in the same boat, you know.”
“No, I ain’t,” replied Trumps, with virtuous indignation, “for ’e’s a mean thief!”
“Oh, an’ you’re a ’ighminded one, I s’pose,” returned the boy, with a hearty chuckle; “but come along, young man. If you’ve suthin’ to tell me about Da-a-a-vid Laidlaw I’m your man. This way.”
He led the man down the alley, across the court, round the corner, and up the stair to the landing.
“There you are,” he said, “this is my snuggery—my boodwar, so to speak. Sot down, an’ out with it.”
Seated there, the thief, in low confidential and solemn tones, related what he had seen and heard in the public-house, and told of his own acquaintance with and interest in Laidlaw.
“The willains!” exclaimed Tommy. “An’ wot d’ee think they’re agoin’ to do?”
“Screw ’im some’ow, an’ git ’im out o’ the way.”