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"So you've come back again! Glad to see yer, Dawes! It seems an age since we had the pleasure of your company, Dawes!" At this pleasantry the train laughed, so that their irons clanked more than ever. They found it often inconvenient not to laugh at Mr. Troke's humour. "Step down here, Dawes, and let me introduce you to your h'old friends. They'll be glad to see yer, won't yer, boys?
In a few strides he had gained the hard and sandy shore, and, pausing to listen, heard behind him the sound of footsteps. He was pursued. The footsteps stopped, and then a voice cried "Surrender!" It was McNab, who, seeing Rex's retreat, had daringly followed him. John Rex drew from his breast Troke's pistol and waited. "Surrender!" cried the voice again, and the footsteps advanced two paces.
Had it not been for the accident of a westerly gale, they would not have had even so much assistance. The Crow walked first, as guide, carrying a musket taken from Harry. Then came Gabbett, with an axe; followed by the other six, sharing between them such provisions as they had obtained at Signal Hill. John Rex, with the carbine, and Troke's pistols, walked last.
"So he is," said Troke, "but we hain't a goin' to send there for a fortnit, and in the meantime I'm to work him on the chain." "Oh!" said Mr. North again. "Lend me your knife, Troke." And then, before them all, this curious parson took a piece of tobacco out of his ragged pocket, and cut off a "chaw" with Mr. Troke's knife.
Troke's jaw fell. "See Dawes?" he repeated. "Yes. Where is he?" Troke was preparing a lie. The imperious voice, and the clear, steady gaze, confused him. "He's here." "Let me see him." "He's he's under punishment, mam." "What do you mean? Are they flogging him?" "No; but he's dangerous, mam. The Commandant " "Do you mean to open the door or not, Mr. Troke?" Troke grew more confused.
From convict mouths went out a respectful roar of amazement, and Mr. Troke's eyes snapped with pride of outraged janitorship. "You ungrateful dog!" he cried, raising his stick. Mr. North put up a hand. "That will do, Troke," he said; "I know your respect for the cloth. Move the men on again." "Get on!" said Troke, rumbling oaths beneath his breath, and Dawes felt his newly-riveted chain tug.
Rufus Dawes walked off moodily; but John Rex's evil face turned pale, and a strange hope made his heart leap. "Gad, Troke's right; we are alike. I'll not press him to escape any more." The Pretty Mary as ugly and evil-smelling a tub as ever pitched under a southerly burster had been lying on and off Cape Surville for nearly three weeks. Captain Blunt was getting wearied.
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