‘Barkers for me, Barney,’ said Toby Crackit.
‘Here they are,’ replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. ‘You loaded them yourself.’
‘All right!’ replied Toby, stowing them away. ‘The persuaders?’
‘I’ve got ‘em,’ replied Sikes.
‘Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing forgotten?’ inquired Toby: fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.
‘All right,’ rejoined his companion. ‘Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That’s the time of day.’
With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney’s hands, who, having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver’s cape.
‘Now then!’ said Sikes, holding out his hand.
Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.
‘Take his other hand, Toby,’ said Sikes. ‘Look out, Barney.’