"I am that," responded Hewitt, plunging his hand in his pocket. "I'm
flush, my boy, flush, and I've been wetting it pretty well to-day. I feel
pretty jolly now, and I shouldn't wonder if I went home cannon.[A] Only a
quid? Have two, if you want 'em--or three; there's plenty more, and you'll
do the same for me some day. Here y'are."
[Footnote A: Drunk.]
Hewitt had, of a sudden, assumed the whole appearance, manners, and
bearing of a slightly elevated rowdy. Now he pulled his hand from his
pocket and extended it, full of silver, with five or six sovereigns
interspersed, toward Wilks.
"I'll have three quid," Wilks said, with decision, taking the money; "but
I'm blowed if I remember you. Who's your pal?"
Hewitt jerked his hand in my direction, winked, and said, in a low voice:
"He's all right. Having a rest. Can't stand Manchester," and winked again.
Wilks laughed and nodded, and I understood from that that Hewitt had very
flatteringly given me credit for being "wanted" by the Manchester police.
We lurched into a public house, and drank a very little very bad whisky
and water.
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