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Troke was reporting his death to Vickers, and while he still slept, the Ladybird, on her way out, passed him so closely that any one on board her might, with a good glass, have espied his slumbering figure as it lay upon the sand. When he woke it was past midday, and the sun poured its full rays upon him.
"What's that?" asked Frere, suddenly interested. "The bolter I was telling you about Gabbett, your old friend. He's returned." "How long has he been out?" "Nigh six weeks, sir," said the constable, touching his cap. "Gad, he's had a narrow squeak for it, I'll be bound. I should like to see him." "He's down at the sheds," said the ready Troke "a 'good conduct' burglar.
"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.
The lad's back, swollen into a lump, now presented the appearance of a ripe peach which a wilful child had scored with a pin. Dawes, turning away from his bloody handiwork, drew the cats through his fingers twice. They were beginning to get clogged a little. "Go on," said Burgess, with a nod; and Troke cried "Wonn!" again. Roused by the morning sun streaming in upon him, Mr.
The intelligent Troke, considerately alive to the wishes of his superior officers, dragged the mass into a sitting posture. Gabbett for it was he passed one great hand over his face, and leaning exactly in the position in which Troke placed him, scowled, bewildered, at his visitors. "Well, Gabbett," says Vickers, "you've come back again, you see. When will you learn sense, eh?
"Oh, no, I do not do not hate you. I am rude in my speech, abrupt in my manner. You must forget it, and and me." A horse's feet crashed upon the gravel, and an instant after Maurice Frere burst into the room. Returning from the Cascades, he had met Troke, and learned the release of the prisoner.
"Kill you," returned Dawes, in a tone of surprise at so preposterous a question. "Thank God!" said Kirkland. "Now then, Miss Nancy," said one of the men, "what's the matter with you!" Kirkland shuddered, and his pale face grew crimson. "Oh," he said, "that such a wretch as I should live!" "Silence!" cried Troke. "No. 44, if you can't hold your tongue I'll give you something to talk about. March!"
Where are your mates?" The giant did not reply. "Do you hear me? Where are your mates?" "Where are your mates?" repeated Troke. "Dead," says Gabbett. "All three of them?" "Ay." "And how did you get back?" Gabbett, in eloquent silence, held out a bleeding foot. "We found him on the point, sir," said Troke, jauntily explaining, "and brought him across in the boat.
"What does he say?" But Troke had not heard, and the "good-conduct" man, shrinking as it seemed, slightly from the prisoner, said he had not heard either. The wretch himself, munching hard at his tobacco, relapsed into his restless silence, and was as though he had never spoken. As he sat there gloomily chewing, he was a spectacle to shudder at.
Frere, who most luckily had appointed to meet me this evening at the prison, tells me that the poor devil Dawes had been on the stretcher since seven o'clock this morning." "You ordered it fust thing, yer honour," said Troke. "Yes, you fool, but I didn't order you to keep the man there for nine hours, did I? Why, you scoundrel, you might have killed him!" Troke scratched his head in bewilderment.
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