Joe Lawson was a professional gambler, although still young, and having an air of respectability about him. Turner, who was an adept at cards, and really longed to finger the greasy trumps, abruptly wheeled about, saying:
“It’s impossible, I cannot spare the time.”
Turner asked for a private room, and, with the dragoon accompanying him, was shown up-stairs. Blanchard turned the key upon the inside of the door, but his companion very quietly unlocked it, saying: “In case you want to make a sudden sally, a locked door is very unhandy.”
“’Ave it yer hown way. Now what’s the go? Yer from the captain, hand must ’ave somethin’ to tell.”
“I am from Preston; and, as we two are to work together, you will have a chance to find out ‘what the go is,’ and fill your pocket with the shiners.”
“If there’s hany thing to be made, hi’m hin. The Cap’s good pay. Tell hus what’s to be done.”
When Tom heard what was expected of them, he merely gave a long whistle, remarking with a savage chuckle, that Preston would have to pay well. Every thing, with this soldier, resolved itself into a question of pay. The morality of an action was unquestioned if it was to be rewarded with a full purse.
“It seems,” continued Turner, “that the captain has had you to assist him in several jobs of this kind before. Does it pay well?”
“Twict. In Lunnon. First rate—drive ha long,” answered Blanchard, whose answers were rather terse, though sufficiently expressive.
“Where are we to take her? That is about all that is to be settled upon.”