"Tyburn Tree!" said he suddenly. "The nubbing cheat! 'Tis there I'm
like to go one o' these days an' all along o' my kind 'eart--with a
curse on't. There were only three men in this 'ard world as knew o'
this 'ere refuge, an' Ben Purvis was shot three year ago an' poor Nick
Scrope swings a-top o' River Hill--which left only me. An' now 'ere's
you--curse on my kind 'eart, says I!"
"Indeed--oh, indeed you may trust me--"
"W'y, there it is--I must trust you, blast my kind 'eart, I says! But
look now, my cove, this here cave being as ye might say the secoor
'aven of a pore soul as the world don't love--if you should ever peach
to a nark or speak a word of it to the queer coves, why then this pore
soul will come a-seekin' till you're found an' blow your danged face
off."
Hereupon I broke into such fervent protestations of secrecy as seemed
to satisfy him, for he turned, and from a roughly constructed cupboard
took a black bottle and two mugs; having filled the mugs he passed one
to me and, raising the other to his lips, nodded:
"Happy days, pal!" said he; and so we drank together. The potent
spirit warmed and comforted me despite the misery of wet boots and
damp clothes, and seated on a box I was already half-asleep when his
grip on my shoulder roused me and, starting up, I saw he had undone
one of the bundles and spread the contents before me on the floor,
namely: a rough jacket, cord breeches, woollen stockings and a pair of
stout, clumsy shoes.
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