They conversed on the weather, the news of the morning’s papers.
One passenger, more curious than the rest and who was struck by the uniform of the officer, asked Peace if he belonged to one of the volunteer regiments.
Our hero endeavoured to evade the question by professing ignorance, but his questioner was pertinacious, and so the released convict was constrained to be more communicative.
He told his companion in the train the real state of the case—that he was a convict on release.
This piece of information caused some consternation. The eyes of every person in the carriage were scrutinising the speaker, upon whom they cast glances of suspicion.
Thoughts of robberies and murders flitted through their brains, and they, most of them, shifted their positions and placed their hands on their pockets.
“Dear me, how very remarkable!” exclaimed an old gentleman in the corner. “How singular! I did not know—ahem!—that persons of your class were permitted to travel in carriages occupied by respectable people.”
“I’ll get out at the next station and go into another carriage if you wish it,” remarked Peace.
“Certainly not! We don’t wish anything of the sort,” observed a broad-shouldered man, who, to all appearance, was, what is termed metaphorically, a “son of Neptune.” “At least I don’t.”
“Nor I!” cried another. “Sit where you are, my man.”