“Ten pounds will carry me on to Portsmouth,” said I, for the localities and resources of roguery were fast becoming familiar to me.
“Too much,” grumbled the crone. Gabe was about to make a savage reply, when two females descended the ladder, and entered the cellar.
“By my forks!” whistled Gabe. “This ’ere is just wot I hoped vouldn’t ’appen; but these cussed gals is everlastin’ly a riggin a man, till he trots over the Old Bailey valls on a vooden oss.”
“Bill!” cried one of the females, recognizing and running to me. “Is it you, Bill? I’ve been over the whole of this blessed town after you, for I heard that Ikey Solomon had let all out, and I feared that you were caught. But, thank Heaven, you’re safe—you’re safe!”
With an hysterical burst of laughter, the girl threw her arms around me and embraced me tightly. Her laughter gradually ceased, and gave way to a violent fit of weeping.
Amazed at first, and not knowing what she could mean, the truth began to break upon me. Poor girl! The burglar’s mistress! What a world of guilt and wo are in those words! Her face was handsome, but oh! how deadly pale, save on the summit of the cheek-bones, where the fire of the hectic blazed. Her large, dark orbs were sunken, and gleamed like the reflected glow of a furnace from their deep cavities. Her apparel, which was a shade or two better than that of her companion, and her language, which showed her to be superior to the wretched assemblage around us, told a tale of sorrow—which, although a common tale, struck deeply on my heart.
“Hang it, Bess,” said Sooterkins, endeavoring to push the girl away, “vot dost mean, crying and sniveling about a chap ven his wery life hangs on his speed in gettin’ out o’Lunnun? Stand aside, thou foolish jade, and let me have my say out vith him.”
“Stand by, Bess dear,” said I, “and I will speak with you directly.”
“Now then,” said Sooterkins, “As I’ve vormed the ten pounds out o’ Sal, all you’ve got to do is this. Be off now, d’rectly, and take all the by cuts till you’re out o’ town, snug in the fields. I’ve a friend as goes down on the mail in the morning, and mind, give him this jark. He’ll be down on the sly with you, for my sake. Then pull for Common Hard, and off over the Channel, till this ’ere job blows by. Lose no time, the night’s dark, and make forward like the wind.”