"
"Exactly my idea, sir. I see you know above a bit about the noble art."
Raffles, as he would have said in his own special slang, worked the
"friendly lay" so well upon Jack, that that young gentleman was captured
to the last gun; you can do an awful lot of execution by deferring to the
opinion of a young man of sixteen, or thereabouts, as to the merit of
relying exclusively on the left.
When the sparring was over, Raffles shuffled out with Jack into the yard
and whistled. A little yellow, ear-torn dog bustled out of some shed and
trotted demurely by Mr. Raffles' right boot.
"See that dog, Mr. Bourne?"
"By the way, Raffles, how did you know my name was Bourne?" asked Jack.
"Mr. Acting mentioned that it was so. No offence, I hope, sir?"
"Oh no!" said Jack.
"Mr. Acting mentioned to me as how Warmint might amuse you."
"Warmint! What the deuce is that?"
"Why, the dawg."
"Well, it's a pretty ugly brute anyhow, Raffles."
"It is so; it's the colour--yellow is a mean colour. But he's a terror to
go."
"Where?" said Jack, uncivilly; for the man's manner, a mixture of
familiarity and servility, had begun to pall on Jack's taste.
"Why, there ain't a better, quicker, neater dawg in all London after the
rats than Warmint. He holds the record south the Thames."
"Is there a record then for rat killing? How is it done?"
"Turn a sack o' long tails on to the floor and let the dawg among them.
He works against time, of course.
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