“What has it to do with you?” returned Tom. “Who are you, anyhow?”
The thin man answered; the stout man had spoken in a shrill squeaky treble, he had the deepest possible bass.
“We’re the young lady’s friends; her two friends. Ain’t that gospel, Sam?”
“It’s that, William; it’s gospel truth. Truer friends than us she’ll never have, nor none what’s more ready to do her a good turn.”
“Not if she was to spend the rest of her days sailing round the world looking for ’em, she’d never find ’em, that she wouldn’t. All we ask is for her to treat us as her friends.” The thin man spat upon the pavement. “Now then, out with it; which of you two ladies is Miss Blyth?”
“I’m not,” cried Emily.
Which I thought was distinctly mean of her, because, of course, it was as good as saying that I was. Once more the stout man looked me up and down.
“You’re her, are you? So I thought. The other’s too pretty, by chalks. You’re a chip of the old block, and there wasn’t no beauty thrown away on him; plain he was, as ever I saw a man; and plainer.”
The fellow was ruder than ever. I am aware that Emily Purvis is a beauty, and that I am not, but at the same time one does not expect to be stopped and told so by two perfect strangers, at that hour of the night.
“For goodness’ sake,” I said to Tom, “let’s get away from these dreadful persons as fast as we possibly can.”