“He’ll be here to look for thee I warrant, an thou go not home.”
“Got back? what for? when came— Harkee, comrade—keep it snug—he’ll not find her—he, he! he’ll not find her.”
“Not he,” said I, making a guess. “We know where she is, though. Eh, Tom?”
“He, he! do we! So doth that other varlet. But, keep it mum, comrade—the wall is none too high, but my Captain may climb it.”
“Ay,” said I, “but he must needs find it first. Eh? That will trouble him, eh? honest Tom.”
“Honest! thou art right, comrade. Ere he learn where she be I’ll—I’ll—harkee, friend I like not that other varlet. What needs she with two of us? Am not I man enough? eh? thou and I, without him? By my soul, comrade, I will slay him.”
“So, he is there, too, where she is?”
“Ho, he! Jack Gedge in a convent? ho, he! Ne’er such luck for him, or thee, or me; eh? ho, ho! Jack in a convent? No, but, comrade,” here he took my arm and whispered, “he ne’er quitteth the city, and no man can get at her but he knows it. ’Tis a very bulldog. Hang him, comrade, hang him, I say.”
“Ay, I am with you there,” said I. “What right hath he to stand betwixt her and honest folk like you and me?”
“Harkee, friend. This varlet, they say, was appointed to the service by one—hang the name of him—an Irish knave that made eyes at her. You know him—”