"You're a nice un, you are.

Why, that's my rope, as 'longs to my donnerkey-cart.

Don't you come lying here." "I tell you that's our rope, and I saw him steal it," I cried, growing stronger now.

"You let me go, and give me my rope, or I'll tell the police." "Why, you never had no rope, yer young liar!" he cried.
"It's my master's rope," I said, struggling to get free.

"I will have it." "What! yer'd steal it, would yer?
Yer'd tell the polliss, would yer!" growled the fellow, tightening his grip; "I'll soon see about that.
Here you, Micky, bring that there rope here." The boy struggled to his feet, and came slowly to us with the rope, which the man scanned eagerly.
"I don't want to make no mistakes," he growled.