‘Ne’er a sign,—you’ll hear a sound of popguns when I do.’
Those five minutes did seem long ones. But at last Sydney, from his post of vantage in the road, informed us that the old lady was moving.
‘She’s getting up;—she’s leaving the window;—let’s hope to goodness she’s coming down to open the door. That’s been the longest five minutes I’ve known.’
I could hear uncertain footsteps descending the stairs. They came along the passage. The door was opened—‘on the chain.’ The old lady peered at us through an aperture of about six inches.
‘I don’t know what you young men think you’re after, but have all three of you in my house I won’t. I’ll have him and you’—a skinny finger was pointed to Lessingham and me; then it was directed towards Atherton—‘but have him I won’t. So if it’s anything particular you want to say to me, you’ll just tell him to go away.’
On hearing this Sydney’s humility was abject. His hat was in his hand,—he bent himself double.
‘Suffer me to make you a million apologies, madam, if I have in any way offended you; nothing, I assure you, could have been farther from my intention, or from my thoughts.’
‘I don’t want none of your apologies, and I don’t want none of you neither; I don’t like the looks of you, and so I tell you. Before I let anybody into my house you’ll have to sling your hook.’
The door was banged in our faces. I turned to Sydney.
‘The sooner you go the better it will be for us. You can wait for us over the way.’