this a relishing and piquing pursuit; firstly, because their resting-place is announced to be sacred; and secondly, because the tall headstones are sufficiently like themselves, on their beat in the dark, to justify the delicious fancy that they are hurt when hit.
Mr. Datchery hails with him: “Halloa, Winks!”
He acknowledges the hail with: “Halloa, Dick!” Their acquaintance seemingly having been established on a familiar footing.
“But, I say,” he remonstrates, “don’t yer go a-making my name public. I never means to plead to no name, mind yer. When they says to me in the Lockup, a-going to put me down in the book, ‘What’s your name?’ I says to them, ‘Find out.’ Likewise when they says, ‘What’s your religion?’ I says, ‘Find out.’ ”
Which, it may be observed in passing, it would be immensely difficult for the State, however statistical, to do.
“Asides which,” adds the boy, “there ain’t no family of Winkses.”
“I think there must be.”
“Yer lie, there ain’t. The travellers give me the name on account of my getting no settled sleep and being knocked up all night; whereby I gets one eye roused open afore I’ve shut the other. That’s what Winks means. Deputy’s the nighest name to indict me by: but yer wouldn’t catch me pleading to that, neither.”
“Deputy be it always, then. We two are good friends; eh, Deputy?”
“Jolly good.”
“I forgave you the debt you owed me when we first became acquainted, and many of my sixpences have come your way since; eh, Deputy?”