He flashed a swift look at his questioner--a look of mingled contempt and derision, spiced with a dash of sneering humour.

And he found his tongue.
"Ill!" he snorted.

"Ill! She asks if I'm ill--me, a respectable man what's maltreated and robbed before his own eyes by them as ought to fall in humble gratitude at his feet! I'll!--aye, ill with something that's worse nor any bodily aches and pains--let me tell you that! But not done for, neither!" "He's all right," said Copplestone.

"That's a flash of his old spirit.
You're all right, Chatfield, aren't you?
And who's robbed and maltreated you--and how and when--especially when--did you come here ?" Chatfield looked up at his old assailant with a glare of dislike.
"You keep your tongue to yourself, young feller!" he growled.

"I shouldn't never ha' been here at all if it hadn't been for the likes of you--a pokin' your nose where it isn't wanted.