"Not even the solitary cracksman?"
"Not even the solitary cracksman, w'ich is me. But sleight-of-'and hisn't hall, Bobbs. It's sleight-of-'ead! Do you fawncy Barney Pease could 'ave got you over that sky-scrapin' wall? It was Bill Dobbs' 'andy 'inge done that. Lor' bless us! We'll be famous for this 'ere night's outin'."
"I've a notion you'd be a bad man to cross, Dobbs, eh?"
"Do you fawncy Hi'd 'urt you, Bobbs, me hangel? Hi wouldn't 'arm you no more'n a wadge-dog would bark at a baby. Hi'll (hic) Hi'll protect you, Bobbs."
Floyd smiled at the cracksman's offer of patronage. But this time he thought it better not to seal the compact with a bumper.
"Not drink?" Dobbs' temper had changed again. "Won't drink and won't give me no mark of 'is confidence—"
"What is it you want, Dobbs? A confession?"
"Confession? Hi? Ho!" the cracksman laughed as if the joke were a rich one. He was far gone, as indeed any man might be after taking so many quarts of ale.
"Confession, ho, ho—wot do Hi want of a confession? Hi 'ad a natural curiosity to know 'ow you set it, and"—his voice assumed reproachful quavers—"a natural mortification to find that my pal (hic) wouldn't trust me."
"Well, the truth is, Dobbs—"