“A sculler will be least suspected, your honour,” said one fellow.
“A pair of oars will carry you through the water like a wild-duck,” said another.
“But you have got never a tilt, brother,” said a third. “Now I can put the gentleman as snug as if he were under hatches.”
In the midst of the oaths and clamour attending this aquatic controversy for his custom, Peveril at length made them understand that he would bestow a Jacobus, not on him whose boat was first oars, but on whomsoever should inform him of the fate of the lady.
“Of which lady?” said a sharp fellow: “for, to my thought, there was a pair of them.”
“Of both, of both,” answered Peveril; “but first, of the fair-haired lady?”
“Ay, ay, that was she that shrieked so when gold-jacket’s companion handed her into No. 20.”
“Who—what—who dared to hand her?” exclaimed Peveril.
“Nay, master, you have heard enough of my tale without a fee,” said the waterman.
“Sordid rascal!” said Peveril, giving him a gold piece, “speak out, or I’ll run my sword through you!”