“I called you a lot o' things I'm sorry for,” ses Ginger, who was bursting with curiosity, “and I beg your pardin, Sam.”
“Shake 'ands on it,” ses Peter, who was nearly as curious as Ginger.
They shook hands, but Sam said he couldn't tell 'em about the ring; and several times Ginger was on the point of calling 'im the names he 'ad called 'im in the arternoon, on'y Peter trod on 'is foot and stopped him. They wouldn't let 'im go to sleep for talking, and at last, when 'e was pretty near tired out, he told 'em all about it.
“Going—to 'ave your—pocket picked?” ses Ginger, staring at 'im, when 'e had finished.
“I shall be watched over,” ses Sam.
“He's gorn stark, staring mad,” ses Ginger. “Wot a good job it is he's got me and you to look arter 'im, Peter.”
“Wot d'ye mean?” ses Sam.
“Mean?” ses Ginger. “Why, it's a put-up job to rob you, o' course. I should ha' thought even your fat 'ead could ha' seen that':”
“When I want your advice I'll ask you for it,” ses Sam, losing 'is temper. “Wot about the di'mond ring—eh?”
“You stick to it,” ses Ginger, “and keep out o' Mr. Cubbins's way. That's my advice to you. 'Sides, p'r'aps it ain't a real one.”