“You eat that bread or I’ll call a policeman and give you in charge,” said the other, raising his voice. “I believe you’re an impostor. Where’s your hawker’s license?”
In a state bordering upon frenzy Sam bit off a piece of the bread and tried to swallow it. He took up a water-bottle and drank some of the contents, and within five minutes had swallowed as many mouthfuls.
“Go on,” said the donor sternly.
“I won’t,” said Sam fiercely; “damned if I will!”
The other rose and went to the door. “Just step this way a minute, constable,” he said quietly.
He stood aside, and, as Sam paused with the bread in his hand, the door opened and Dick and Henry entered, and shaking their heads, gazed sorrowfully upon him. The big man sat down and laughed until he cried as Sam, realizing the plot of which he had been the victim, flung the bread at Henry and made for the door. He went down the road mad with indignation, and with a firm resolve to have no more to do with bootlaces, pitched them away.
“Hallo, Sam!” cried a figure from the other side of the road. “Any luck?”
Sam shook his head speechlessly.
“You’ve been drinkin,” said the cook as he came over.
“I ain’t,” said Sam. Then a base idea occurred to him, and he took the other by the arm.