'I'm hanged if I know what to do.

I want to get home for dinner.

I tell you what, sir, I'll take you on with me and put you up for the night.

My boy's at home, convalescing, and if he says you're pukka I'll ask your pardon and give you a dashed good bottle of port.

I'll trust him and I warn you he's a keen hand.' There was nothing to do but consent, and I got in beside him with an uneasy conscience.