"Them winks," said Raffles, diplomatically, "was meant to show that I was
moving--moving slow, but sure. You've observed, Mr. Acting, yourself, as
'ow the young shaver had a head on 'is shoulders."

"Yes, but I didn't bargain for yours being off your shoulders."

"Well, what with bunnies, cartridges, and the Blue Cow, and the other
extras, he is about cleaned out now."

"Cleaned out!" said Acton, with intense irritation. "That's not what I
wanted. I told you distinctly that I must have him five pounds deep at
the least. How can I engineer my schemes if my sharpers can't cut? You'll
look blue, Raffles, when I settle your account, take my word for it."

"Not quite so quick off the mark, Mr. Acting. What do you value this
piece of ironmongery at?"

Raffles fished up the gun which had burst in Jack's hands that afternoon
from behind the corn-chest, and held it up to the light.

"A burst gun!" said Acton. "It's worth throwing away; no more."

"It was worth this morning, say fifteen bob, before Bourne blew its ribs
out."

"Jove!" said Acton, "let me handle the thing." He looked at the torn
breech, and whistled with involuntary horror. "Much of a squeak,
Raffles?"