“Upstairs?” he roared. “No, my girl, you don’t! We keep together! We keep together! S’help me, if I don’t think you mean to peach!”
“Don’t be a fool,” she answered. And she furtively touched Henrietta’s arm, as a sign to her to be ready. Then to the gipsy lad, in a tone full of meaning, “The gentry mort,” she said, in thieves’ patter, “is not worth the nubbing-cheat. I’m fly, and I’ll not have it. Stow it, my lad, and don’t be a flat!”
“And let you peach on us?” he answered, smiling.
Lunt struck the table.
“Stop your lingo!” he said. “Here, you!” to Giles. “Are you going to let these two sell us? The lass is on to peaching, that’s my belief!”
“We’ll—soon stop that,” Giles replied, with a hiccough. “Here, I’ll—I’ll take one, and you—you t’other! And we’ll fine well stop their peaching, pretty dears!” He staggered to his feet as he spoke, his face inflamed with drink. “Peach, will they?” he muttered, swaying a little, and scowling at them over the dull, unsnuffed candles. “We’ll stop that, and—and ha’ some fun, too.”
“S’help us if we don’t!” cried Lunt, also rising to his feet. “Let’s live to-day, if we die to-morrow! You take one and I’ll take the other!”
The gipsy lad grinned.
“Who’s the flat now?” he chuckled. He alone remained seated, with his arms on the table. “You’ve raised your pipe too soon, my lass!”
“Stow this folly!” Bess answered, keeping a bold face. “We’re going upstairs,” she continued. “Do you”—to Henrietta—“bring the child.”