"Aye, or half that."

"And how if it had been a _puppy_, Mr. X?"

Now all this from my hiding I had heard very clearly, for they stood
right under me in the dusk. But as the old gentleman paused to let
his question sink in, and the bully to catch the drift of it before
answering, one of the dicers above struck up to sing a catch----

"With a hey, trolly-lolly! a leg to the Devil,
And answer him civil, and off with your cap:
Sing--Hey, trolly-lolly! Good-morrow, Sir Evil,
We've finished the tap,
And, saving your worship, we care not a rap!"

While this din continued, the stranger held up one forefinger again,
as if beseeching silence, the other remaining still between the
pages of his book.

"Pretty boys!" he said, as the noise died away; "pretty boys! 'Tis
easily seen they have a bird to pluck."

"He's none of my plucking."

"And if he were, why not? Sure you've picked a feather or two before
now in the Low Countries--hey?"

"I'll tell you what," interrupts the big man, "next time you crack
one of your death's-head jokes, over the wall you go after the dog.
What's to prevent it?"