I had seen a policeman on the other side of the way, standing under the shop-blind of a cheesemonger’s shop, talking to the young man with the apron who was in charge, grinning from ear to ear with him, and grossly neglecting his duty, which was to keep a sharp look out at what was going on up and down the street.
“Where are you off to now?” asked Mr. Youson.
“Bender’s is over the way.”
“What, the butterman’s?”
“No, no, but just by there. Come along. Mind this horse and cart; I should not like you to get run over with that in your pocket,” I said, almost incoherently.
Mr. Youson gave a short double-knock sort of a laugh.
“What, you are getting anxious about the clock, after all?”
“I am indeed.”
We had reached the other side of the way, and the policeman had turned his back upon us—just like him!—and was staring straight into the shop. There was a row of egg-boxes full of eggs of all sizes and prices and ages in front of the premises. Suddenly, I sprang like a panther upon my prey, flung my arms round Youson’s neck, and yelled, at the top of my lungs, for “Help!” and for the “Police!”
“Damn—confound it, sir—what!”—gurgled forth Youson, in his supreme astonishment; then we both staggered, our feet went from under us, and, locked in each other’s arms, we sat down, all of a heap, in the “28 a shilling, not warranted,” compartment, and a hideous crackling, as of a subdued and squashy landslip, went on beneath our writhing forms.