"In the twinkling of a bed-post," replied Rust. "We'll turn him inside out. What's here?" cried he, searching the attorney's pockets. "A brace of barkers," handing a pair of pistols to Turpin, "a haddock, stuffed with nothing, I'm thinking; one quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull, three hogs, and a kick; a d—d dicky concern, captain."
"Three hogs and a kick," muttered Coates; "the knave says true enough."
"Is there nothing else?" demanded Dick.
"Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer."
"No reader?[90] Try his hoxter."[91]
"Here's a pit-man,[92] captain."
"Give it me. Ah! this will do," cried Dick, examining the contents of the pocket-book. "This is a glorious windfall indeed; a bill of exchange for 500l., payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates? Quick! indorse it, sir. Here's pen and ink. Rascal! if you attempt to tear the bill, I'll blow your brains out. Steady, sir, sign. Good!" added he, as Coates most reluctantly indorsed the bill. "Good! good! I'll be off with this bill to London to-night, before you can stop it. No courier can beat Bess—ha, ha! Eh! what's this?" continued Dick, as, unfolding another leaf of the pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; "My Lady Rookwood's superscription! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at her ladyship's billet-doux. All's safe with me—man of honor. I must detain your reader a moment longer."
"You should take charge of yourself, then," replied Coates, sulkily. "You appear to be my reader."
"Bravo!" cried Turpin. "You may jest now with impunity, Mr. Coates. You have paid dear enough for your jokes; and when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, if not at his own expense?—ha, ha! What's this?" exclaimed he, opening the letter. "A ring, as I'm awake! and from her ladyship's own fair finger, I'll be sworn, for it bears her cipher, ineffaceably impressed as your image upon her heart—eh, Coates? Egad! you are a lucky dog, after all, to receive such a favor from such a lady—ha, ha! Meantime, I'll take care of it for you," continued Dick, slipping the ring on his little finger.
Turpin, we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry; and it was with an irresistible feeling of deferential awe creeping over him that Coates heard the contents of Lady Rookwood's epistle delivered with an enunciation as peremptory and imperious as that of her ladyship's self. The letter was hastily indited, in a clear, firm hand, and partook of its writer's decision of character. Dick found no difficulty in deciphering it. Thus ran the missive: