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Googe turned away sad-like, an' then Jim comes home, an' widout a word to his wife, says if they don't strike, because there's a convic' an' a no union man a-workin' 'longside of him in his section, he'll lave an' give up his job here an' it's two hundred he's paid down out of his wages, an' me a-savin' from morn till night on me home an' 't was to be me very own because Jim says no man alive can tell when he'll be dead in the quarries an' the sheds."
Having said which, he apologetically smeared his face all over with his shirt-sleeve, and subsided again. "It do wring my 'eart ah, that it do! to think o' pore Jarge a convic' at Bot'ny Bay!" said Old Amos, "a-workin', an' diggin', an' slavin' wi' irons on 'is legs an' arms, a-jinglin', an' ajanglin' when 'e walks."
"Well, but it's Justice, aren't it?" demanded Job "a poacher's a thief, an' a thief's a convic' or should be!" "I've 'eerd," said Old Amos, shaking his head, "I've 'eerd as they ties they convic's up to posts, an' lashes an' lashes 'em wi' the cat-o'-nine-tails!" "They generally mostly deserves it!" nodded Job.
"Dey says he got dat eye knock' out tryin' ter whip a cullud 'oman, when he wuz a boy, an' dat he ain' never had no use fer niggers sence, 'cep'n' fer what he could make outen 'em wid his convic' labor contrac's. His daddy wuz a' overseer befo' 'im, an' it come nachul fer him ter be a nigger-driver.
"Not if me an' Peter an' you can 'elp it, Simon, my bye but we 'm but poor worms, arter all, as the Bible says; an' if Peter 'as been an' rose 'er 'opes o' freein' Jarge, an' don't free Jarge if Jarge should 'ave to go a convic' to Austrayley, or or t' other place, why then she'll fade, fade as ever was, an' be laid in the churchyard afore 'er poor old grandfeyther!"
It's not Jim McCann's b'y that'll be doin' the dirthy job that yer Mr. Champney Googe was after doin' six years gone, nor be after takin' the bread an' butter out of an honest man's mout' that has a wife an' three childer to feed. He's a convic', says Jim. "'What if he is? says I.
"Not perzactly. But he's likely ter be a convic' arter I git him," and he chuckled, hoarsely. "Well, this island is posted. We have a permit to camp here, but I don't believe you have any warrant for landing at all," said Bobby, sharply.
You an' me'll up an' see Squire, Peter, sha'n't us? Black Jarge aren't a convic' yet, let fules say what they will; we'll show 'em, Peter, we'll show 'em!" So saying, the old man led me into the kitchen of "The Bull," while Simon went to have the horses put to.
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