“Turn out yer pockets, nobs!” said he, giving them a slight admonitory shake.
“I haven’t got a sovereign,” said Heathcote.
Dick did not even condescend to plead; he fell headlong on his huge opponent, shouting, in the midst of his blows—
“Let us go, do you hear? I know your name; you’re Tom White, the boatman, and I’ll get you locked up if you don’t.”
But even this valiant threat, and the still more valiant struggles of the two boys, availed nothing with the nautical highwayman, who smoked, and shook the bones of his wretched captives, till they were fain to call for mercy.
The mercy was dearly bought. Dick’s half-sovereign, Heathcote’s twelve shillings, the penknife with the gouge, among them did not make up the price. One by one their pockets were turned inside out, and whatever there took the fancy of the noble mariner went into the ransom. Pencils, india-rubber, keys, and even a photograph of Dick’s mother were impounded; while resistance, or even expostulation only added bone-shaking into the bargain; till, at last, the unhappy lambs were glad to assist at their own fleecing, in order to expedite their release.
“There yer are,” said Tom, when at last the operation was over, “that’s about all I want of yer, my hearties; and if yer want the road to Templeton, that’s she, and good-night to yer, and thank yer kindly. Next time yer want a sail, don’t forget to give an honest jack tar a turn. Knows my name, do yer? Blessed if I ever see you afore.”
“You’re a beastly, low, tipsy thief,” shouted Dick, from a respectful distance, “and we’ll get you paid out for this.”
And not waiting for a reply, the two unfortunates, less heavily weighted than ever, started down the road, snorting with rage and indignation and full of thoughts of the direst revenge.
Nemesis was coming down on them at last with a vengeance!