“Ay, ay? It’s you, is it, honest friend?” said Eugene, seating himself preparatory to resuming his sculls. “You got the place, then?”

“I got the place, and no thanks to you for it, nor yet none to Lawyer Lightwood,” gruffly answered Riderhood.

“We saved our recommendation, honest fellow,” said Eugene, “for the next candidate⁠—the one who will offer himself when you are transported or hanged. Don’t be long about it; will you be so good?”

So imperturbable was the air with which he gravely bent to his work that Riderhood remained staring at him, without having found a retort, until he had rowed past a line of wooden objects by the weir, which showed like huge teetotums standing at rest in the water, and was almost hidden by the drooping boughs on the left bank, as he rowed away, keeping out of the opposing current. It being then too late to retort with any effect⁠—if that could ever have been done⁠—the honest man confined himself to cursing and growling in a grim undertone. Having then got his gates shut, he crossed back by his plank lock-bridge to the towing-path side of the river.