'A distinction,' responded the merchant, momentarily startled at his own doctrine when presented in such a practical form, and wishing to rid himself of all responsibility arising from the lessons he had inculcated, 'which the law would scarcely acknowledge as a difference. That kind of casuistry, Stauncy, often satisfies a fellow's conscience, and is something to keep the spirits up; but there its utility ends.'
'Then you have doubly deceived me,' replied the captain scornfully; 'and there's a strong temptation to turn king's evidence.'
'It wouldn't help you, cap'n. Everybody knows that the biggest rogues always do that, and judges them accordingly; and as I am at the top of the ladder, and you are at the bottom, it would be all the worse for you. A little palm-grease and a little hard swearing would upset you, depend upon it.'
'I don't know,' said the captain. 'It would go hard with you, Mr. Phillipson, if all I know were to come out; and far better would it be for you to devise a plan for my protection, if money and station can do it, than to let an implied threat tread on the heels of a snakish bribe.'
The merchant was silent, because he was mortified. His mind oscillated between his two theories of bluster and blarney. Should he defy or conciliate, threaten or cajole? His prudence, however, got the better of his vexation, and he answered, after a short pause, 'I admit all you say, Stauncy; but suppose the worst comes to the worst, it's no use for both of us to put our heads into one noose; and though life is as precious to you as to me, yet consider for a moment the merits of the case. You did the deed; so that, if I were put up as a breastwork before you, you would be sent to Botany Bay for life,—as good as dead to your wife and family,—whilst I should be placed beyond the possibility of acting as a husband and a father to them. And then there's your oath, Stauncy. How can you get over that? whilst, by letting me down helm, that I may pay off, you would leave some one behind who could provide for the widow and the orphan; and I give you my oath here, against yours.'
'You would, Mr. Phillipson? Do you say that sincerely? The widow and the orphan have not had much of your sympathy and care hitherto; and the book which I have so little heeded says, "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?"'
'If I give you my oath, Stauncy, what can I do more? That's not a thing to wriggle out of. You might put my life in the scale against it.'
The bolt grated harshly in the lock as the merchant uttered these words, and the turnkey apprised them that the interview must terminate. Bidding the prisoner farewell, Mr. Phillipson hastily retreated from a place where all the while he seemed to hear accusing voices—endeavouring to feel self-satisfied, but in reality self-condemned; and as the door closed once more on the captain, the prisoner stretched himself again on the hard mattress, to weigh the chances that favoured him and the worth of the merchant's promise.