I allers goes to
see Ma Lorenzo when I'm in Port o' London. I've seen 'er for the
last time, mates."
He banged a big and dirty hand upon the table.
"Last night I see murder done, an' only that I know they wouldn't
believe me, I'd walk across to Limehouse P'lice Station presently
and put the splits on 'em, I would."
Harley, who was seated behind the speaker, glanced at me
significantly.
"Sure you wasn't dreamin'?" he inquired facetiously.
"Dreamin'!" cried the man. "Dreams don't leave no blood be'ind,
do they?"
"Blood!" I exclaimed.
"That's wot I said--blood! When I woke up this mornin' there was
blood all on that grinnin' joss--the blood wot 'ad dripped from
'er shoulders when she fell."
"Eh!" said Harley. "Blood on whose shoulders? Wot the 'ell are
you talkin' about, old son?"
"Ere"--the fireman turned in his chair and grasped Harley by the
arm--"listen to me, and I'll tell you somethink, I will. I'm
goin' in the Seahawk in the mornin' see? But if you want to know
somethink, I'll tell yer. Drunk or sober I bars the blasted
p'lice, but if you like to tell 'em I'll put you on somethink
worth tellin'. Sure the bottle's empty, mates?"
I caught Harley's glance and divided the remainder of the whisky
evenly between the three glasses.
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