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 ’Twas Creech as had the information to start with, and took it from no less a person than Timothy Grubbe himself. “Ay, there you are,” says Old Irons to me, “and who d’ye suppose is blind cuckoo enough for to walk into Timothy’s net? Why, you, Dick Ryder,” says he, “you and a buffle-head like Creech there.”

“As for that,” I said, for I was nettled at his sneering, “I can see a point or two beyond Timothy Grubbe’s back, and without ever a wink from you.”

“Rip me,” says he, starting up, “d’ye think I could not ha’ been in the job myself? And I suppose ’twas not Timothy as came wheedling of me with his rat’s eyes, and clapping me on the back for a lord, and thrusting forth his tongue upon the sight of guineas that a man of heart might take in a night an’ he used his weapons briskly. Bah!” says Old Irons, “I trust no thief-catcher, nor no go-between, not till I pull my locks at the topsman.”

And this was true enough about Timothy Grubbe, as every man of us knew very well. There was many that owed the Jug and the