Yet he did not flinch. He was of the true bull-dog breed. He, no more than my Lord Liverpool and my Lord Castlereagh, was to be scared by uncertain dangers, or by the fear of those over whom he was set. He advanced slowly, and was not more than four yards from the bush, he was even poising himself to leap on his quarry, when the man who was hiding rose to his feet.
Bishop swore. And some one behind him chuckled. He turned as if he had been pricked. And his face was red.
“Going to take old Hinkson?” laughed Tyson, who had come up unseen, and been watching his movements.
“I wanted a word with him,” the runner muttered. He tried to speak as if he were not embarrassed.
“So I see,” Tyson answered, and pointing with his finger to the pistol, he laughed.
Mr. Bishop, with his face a fine port-wine colour, lowered the weapon out of sight. Then he laughed, but feebly.
“Has he any sense?” he asked, looking with disgust at the frowsy old creature, who mopping and mowing at him was holding out a crooked claw.
“Sense enough to beg for a penny,” Tyson answered.
“He knows enough for that?”
“He’d sell his soul for a shilling.”