“Why, of course it was. I told you so.”
“Oh, true, I forgot.”
“Why your wits are wool-gathering.”
“That’s better than oakum picking,” returned Bill, bursting out into a loud laugh. “I had you there, old man, and no mistake.”
“Look here, Bill, it aint worth while for you to remind me, nor for me to remind you of the miseries of prison life. I don’t like to think of it—blessed if I do. It seems to send a cold shudder through my frame. I’ve had enough of it, and don’t intend to be ‘copped’ again, come what may.”
“Why, what would you do then?”
“Shoot my man down, rather than be taken.”
“Oh, Jerusalem! But——”
“Well, what?”
“That sounds like murder,” cried the gipsy; “and we’ve neither of us come to that as yet, and I hope as how we never shall—never.”