P'r'aps a burial job," hazarded a short, stout fellow, as a sort of happy suggestion.
"One of those coves in the parlour!" said another; and a laugh followed the speech.
"No such luck.

You won't hang your jib for them yet awhile.

More like the skipper agone fishin'." "The skipper don't go fishin', yer fool.

What would he do fishin' ?--special in the middle o' the night." "That 'ud be like old Dovery, eh ?" says a fifth, alluding to an old grey-headed fellow, who--a returned convict--was again under sentence for body-snatching.
"Ay," put in a young man, who had the reputation of being the smartest "crow" (the "look-out" man of a burglars' gang) in London--"'fishers of men,' as the parson says." The snuffling imitation of a Methodist preacher was good, and there was another laugh.
Just then a miserable little cockney pickpocket, feeling his way to the door, fell into the party.
A volley of oaths and kicks received him.
"I beg your pardon, gen'l'men," cries the miserable wretch, "but I want h'air." "Go to the barber's and buy a wig, then!" says the "Crow", elated at the success of his last sally.
"Oh, sir, my back!" "Get up!" groaned someone in the darkness.

"Oh, Lord, I'm smothering! Here, sentry!" "Vater!" cried the little cockney.