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Hesitatingly Carter's finger rested on her wrist. A lump leaped to his throat, he could have shouted with joy as he found that the pulse still stirred. "She is not dead," he said in a voice vibrant with thanksgiving. His eyes sought the Cockney's for a responsive gleam of gratitude. His trembling fingers awkwardly loosened the habit about the round white throat.
He was conscious of brown hands clutching at the cricketer, to drag him away. He himself seized the cockney's legs and braced for that absurd and deadly tug of war. Then Von Plaanden's saber descended, and he was able to haul Galpy back into safety. The situation was desperate now. Mr. Brewster was pinned against the wall and disarmed, but still fighting with fist and foot.
Aristophanes of Byzantium wrote glossaries and grammars, collected editions of Plato and Aristotle, aesthetic disquisitions on Homer one wishes they were preserved, for the sake of the jest, that one might have seen an Alexandrian cockney's views of Achilles and Ulysses!
They would have done almost anything for him; aye, they loved the little man, and admired him. Yet the stiffs were not much impressed by what Holy Joe did to the mate. I guess they simply couldn't understand it. But Cockney's trying to stick a knife into the mate's back quite captured their fancy. Aye, that attempted murder was a great deed; it made Cockney their hero.
"No worry," he said genially. "Yim an' us, Boss, our job." Varian had wedged his hawk face close to the cockney's, now purple blotched with wrath, and Rawling waited. "Come to the office an' get your pay. You hear? Then you clear out. If you ain't off the property in an hour you'll be dead. You hear?" "He ought to," muttered Ling, leading the mare away.
A pair of workman's brogans encased my feet, and for trousers I was furnished with a pair of pale blue, washed-out overalls, one leg of which was fully ten inches shorter than the other. The abbreviated leg looked as though the devil had there clutched for the Cockney's soul and missed the shadow for the substance. "And whom have I to thank for this kindness?"
It is not called Oyster Pond, as the uninitiated would be very apt to get it, but Oyster Pùnd, the last word having a sound similar to that of the cockney's 'pound, in his "two pùnd two."
Presently I recollected the situation, and turned to leave the perron. Perhaps, if I had saved some honest cockney's son from a like danger, I should not have avoided him, but, with a friendly pressure of the hand, expressed my pleasure at having been able to be of service to him. Then we should have parted good friends.
"Say you lie!" Cockney was a big man, and husky. He cursed, and struggled. But he was a child in the grasp of that white-faced giant towering over him. The hands I had seen gripping the rail a moment before, now gripped Cockney's wrists in the same terrible clutch. They squeezed, as though to crush the very bones. Cockney squirmed, and whimpered, then he broke down, and screamed in agony.
"We're locked in that's sure!" gasped Dalzell, almost dazed by the catastrophe. "And what's more, we won't get out in a hurry, unless we can make some of our classmates hear," declared Dave. For the next half minute they yelled themselves nearly hoarse, but no response came. "What could have been that little cockney's purpose in playing this shabby trick on us?" demanded Farley.
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