when we man-handled him. Won't that be enuff ter give yew five-spot in Biribi?"
"Yus. Wot cher givin' us, Ole Cock?" expostulated 'Erb. "Wot price them blokes Malvin, an' Bower, an' Borjis, an' 'Ersh? Fink they'll shut their 'eads? An' wot price that bloomin' psalm-smitin', Bible-puncher of a George Washington of a Joolt? Wot price ole Tarntderswoff? Git 'im in front of a court martial an' 'e wouldn't jabber, would 'e? Not arf, 'e wouldn't. I don't fink."
"And don't talk tosh, my dear chap, about having nowhere to go, please," said Rupert. "You're coming home with me of course. My mother will love to have you."
"Thanks awfully, but I'm afraid I can't go to England," was the reply. "I must…"
"Garn," interrupted 'Erb. "I'm wanted meself, but I'm a-goin' ter chawnst it. No need ter 'ang abaht Scotland Yard.… I knows lots o' quiet juggers. 'Sides, better go where it's a risk o' bein' pinched than stop where it's a dead cert.… Nuvver fing. You ain't goin' ter be put away fer wot you done, Gawd-knows-'ow-many years ago. That's all blowed over, long ago. Why you've bin 'ere pretty nigh fifteen year, ain't yer? Talk sinse, Ole Cock—ain't yer jest said yer'd raver do a ten stretch in Portland than 'arf a one in Biribi?"
John Bull and Reginald Rupert smiled at each other.
"Thanks awfully, Rupert," said the former, "but I can't go to England." Turning to the Cockney he added, "You're a good sort, Herbert, my laddie—but I'm staying here."
