“Much bigger,” ses Peter. “I couldn’t dream of letting it go at thirty. It’s chucking money away. Why, we might get two ’undred for it. Who knows?”
Sam sat on the edge of ’is bed like a man in a dream, then ’e began to make a noise like a cat with a fish-bone in its throat, and then ’e stood up and let fly.
“Don’t stop ’im, Peter,” ses Ginger. “Let ’im go on; it’ll do him good.”
“He’s forgot all about that penknife you picked up and went shares in,” ses Peter. “I wouldn’t be mean for twenty lockets.”
“Nor me neither,” ses Ginger. “But we won’t let ’im be mean—for ’is own sake. We’ll ’ave our rights.”
“Rights!” ses Sam. “Rights! You didn’t find it.”
“We always go shares if we find anything,” ses Ginger. “Where’s your memory, Sam?” “But I didn’t find it,” ses Sam.
“No, you bought it,” ses Peter, “and if you don’t go shares we’ll split on you—see? Then you can’t sell it anyway, and perhaps you won’t even get the reward. We can be at Orange Villa as soon as wot you can.”
“Sooner,” ses Ginger, nodding. “But there’s no need to do that. If ’e don’t go shares I’ll slip round to the police-station fust thing in the morning.”
“You know the way there all right,” ses Sam, very bitter.