"Who's your friend, Wayne?" said Norris.
Hawkins, who had held back, was now moving forward.
"This is Andrew Hawkins," I began. "He—"
"Yes, gentlemen, my nyme is Handrew 'Awkins," interrupted that individual. "An' right proud I am to make yer acquyntance," he bowed; "an' to bid you welcome to—to—this—this—"
"'Ell 'ole," I prompted him, by way of cutting short his disgusting performance.
"Yes, 'ell 'ole, right you are, my black friend, 'ell 'ole. And 'aven't I 'ad reason to know, bein' 'ere this two years or about?"
Ray and Norris were leaning forward in the dark, the better to see this grimacing, dancing being that accompanied me.
"Well, I say now, if this ain't a bloomin' countryman of mine!" broke out Grant Norris, seizing Hawkins by the hand, with a squeeze that caused that being to writhe and dance on the sod, with mingled agony, joy, and the contortions of his infirmity. When at last Norris turned him loose, he nursed his crushed hand, saying—"Ow, yes, God bless Queen Victoria and all others in authority."
From that moment the little pickpocket deserted me, and fastened himself like a barnacle to the big, hulking, patronizing Norris.
"What kind of a plaything have you got here?" demanded Ray, putting his hand on my improvised crutch.