“Ho, ho! ain’t he a funny chap? Do you hear. Turnip? ain’t you a funny chap? Oh, my eye! not at all.”
It was disgusting! Not only was I cooped up in an abominably filthy tail-coat pocket, with a motley rabble of disreputable associates, but every time I opened my lips here I was insulted and laughed at for every word I spoke.
However, I gathered that the purport of the reply to my last inquiry was that the young Cadger was a thief, and I made one more attempt to gain information.
“Where are we going to now?” I asked.
“Going!” cried the pipe, with his insulting jeer.
“What, don’t you know where you’re a-going, old Turnip? You’re a-going wherever he takes yer; ain’t he, mate?”
It was positively painful to see how that vile piece of string wriggled as he replied,—
“Do you hear, Turnip? You’re a-going wherever young Cadger takes yer. Now what do you think of that?”
It was impossible to continue a conversation with such low, ill-mannered creatures, and I therefore abandoned the attempt, having at least ascertained that I was at present located in a thief’s pocket, that my immediate destination was vague, and that ultimately I might expect to become the property of a near relative of my present possessor.
Noticing that I became silent, the pipe and the string between them began to question me. But I was neither in the mood nor the desire to gratify their curiosity. They therefore contented themselves with cracking jokes at my expense, and thus we journeyed together a mile or two towards our unknown destination.