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Updated: June 3, 2025
"If I thort she was agoin' to throw us over, I'd cut her throat as soon as look at her!" snorts Gabbett savagely. "Jack ud have a word in that," snuffles the Moocher; "and he's a curious cove to quarrel with." "Well, stow yer gaff," grumbled Mr. Gabbett, "and let's have no more chaff. If we're for bizness, let's come to bizness." "What are we to do now?" asked the Moocher.
The mutineers, headed by Gabbett, Vetch, and the Moocher, were nearest to the door; the timid boys, old men, innocent poor wretches condemned on circumstantial evidence, or rustics condemned to be turned into thieves for pulling a turnip were at the farther end, huddling together in alarm; and the prudent that is to say, all the rest, ready to fight or fly, advance or retreat, assist the authorities or their companions, as the fortune of the day might direct occupied the middle space.
That's in the Bible, Gearge. Motive. I thought I'd try un just once more. 'What's a motive, Dame? says I. 'I've got un here, says she, quite quiet-like. But I seed her feeling under 's chair, and I know'd 'twas for the strap, and I ran straight off, spelling-book and all, Gearge." "So thee've been playing moocher, eh?" said George, with an unpleasant twinkle in his eyes.
The alarm ran round, and all the prison crowded down to stare at him. All at once he uttered a groan, and turning, propped his body on his two rigid arms, and made an effort to speak. But no sound issued from his convulsed jaws. "He's done," said the Moocher brutally. "He didn't hear nuffin', I'll pound it." The noise of the heavy bolts shooting back broke the spell.
The giant swings his axe in savage anger at enforced cold, and Vetch takes an opportunity to remark privately to him what a big man Greenhill is. On the fourteenth day they can scarcely crawl, and their limbs pain them. Greenhill, who is the weakest, sees Gabbett and the Moocher go aside to consult, and crawling to the Crow, whimpers: "For God's sake, Jemmy, don't let 'em murder me!"
"'Ark at 'em," growled the Moocher from his corner, "a-cheerin' at the bloody noos!" "Wait a bit," said the acuter intelligence of Jemmy Vetch. "Give 'em time. There'll be three or four more down afore night, and then we'll see!" It was late in the afternoon when Sarah Purfoy awoke from her uneasy slumber.
"What other thirty, bum?" "Why, the balance of the fifty. For an introduction to Mi to the maker of the Metamorphizer. To compensate me, you know, for my loss of revenue." "Weener, you have all the earmarks of a castiron moocher. Let me tell you, suh such methods are unbecoming. They suggest damyankee push and blackmail. Remember Reconstruction and White Supremacy, suh."
"Look 'ee, Abel, my boy," said he, pinching Abel's shoulder till he turned red and white with pain. "If thee ever speaks of that letter and that word to any mortal soul, I'll tell Master Lake thee plays moocher, and I'll half kill thee myself. Thee shall rue the day ever thee was born!" he added, almost beside himself with rage and terror.
There was silence for a minute or two. The giant was plunged in gloomy abstraction, and Vetch and the Moocher interchanged a significant glance. Gabbett had been ten years at the colonial penal settlement of Macquarie Harbour, and he had memories that he did not confide to his companions. When he indulged in one of these fits of recollection, his friends found it best to leave him to himself.
Three men, leaning carelessly against the bulwarks, watched her every motion. "There she is, right enough," growled Mr. Gabbett, as if in continuation of a previous remark. "Flash as ever, and looking this way, too." "I don't see no wipe," said the practical Moocher. "Patience is a virtue, most noble knuckler!" says the Crow, with affected carelessness. "Give the young woman time."
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