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"'Beg yer pardon, Sir! I sez, 'but if you let 'im go back t' Dyvidsburg I fink 'e'll be quite contented. Seems like 'e wants t' be wiv Sorjint Slavin an' Constable Yorke agin. "'Fink so? sez 'e, pullin' 'is oweld moustache, 'I sure do, Sir, I sez. 'So be it, then! 'e sez, turnin' t' Kilbride, but th' Inspector 'e sez nothin': 'e on'y larfs. An' then they went away."
Redmond, giving vent to a delighted oath, came out of his sulks on the instant. "Hardy!" he cried, "you're a gentleman! . . ." "Nay!" was the other's disclaimer. "A dranken oweld soweljer, son . . . that's all." But Redmond heard him not.
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