“Gone,” answered Captain Colepepper—“Gone, no matter where—I had a mind to bite, and I was bitten, that's all—I think my hand shook at the thought of t'other night's work, for I trowled the doctors like a very baby.”
“And you have lost all, then?—Well, take this and be gone,” said the scrivener.
“What, two poor smelts! Marry, plague of your bounty!—But remember, you are as deep in as I.”
“Not so, by Heaven!” answered the scrivener; “I only thought of easing the old man of some papers and a trifle of his gold, and you took his life.”
“Were he living,” answered Colepepper, “he would rather have lost it than his money.—But that is not the question, Master Skurliewhitter—you undid the private bolts of the window when you visited him about some affairs on the day ere he died—so satisfy yourself, that, if I am taken, I will not swing alone. Pity Jack Hempsfield is dead, it spoils the old catch,
'And three merry men, and three merry men,
And three merry men are we,
As ever did sing three parts in a string,
All under the triple tree.'”
“For God's sake, speak lower,” said the scrivener; “is this a place or time to make your midnight catches heard?—But how much will serve your turn? I tell you I am but ill provided.”
“You tell me a lie, then,” said the bully—“a most palpable and gross lie.—How much, d'ye say, will serve my turn? Why, one of these bags will do for the present.”
“I swear to you that these bags of money are not at my disposal.”
“Not honestly, perhaps,” said the captain, “but that makes little difference betwixt us.”