Was it not
enough? And poor Kelly danced frantically around them, hurrahing; his own
sorrows forgotten in his friend's deliverance.
The Jew-boy shook himself, turned, and darted down stairs past us; the
policeman quietly put out his foot, tripped him headlong, and jumping down
after him, extracted from his grasp a heavy pocket-book.
"Ah! my dear mothersh's dying gift! Oh, dear! oh dear! give it back to a
poor orphansh!"
"Didn't I see you take it out o' the old un's pocket, you young villain?"
answered the maintainer of order, as he shoved the book into his bosom, and
stood with one foot on his writhing victim, a complete nineteenth-century
St. Michael.
"Let me hold him," I said, "while you go up-stairs."
"_You_ hold a Jew-boy!--you hold a mad cat!" answered the policeman,
contemptuously--and with justice--for at that moment Downes appeared on the
first-floor landing, cursing and blaspheming.
"He's my 'prentice! he's my servant! I've got a bond, with his own hand to
it, to serve me for three years. I'll have the law of you--I will!"
Then the meaning of the big stick came out.
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