To speak, to confess, meant losing his first, only friend. It meant losing the chance of work. It might mean that he would be arrested and sent back to England and prison!
But he had to play the game! It is curious how little things affect one at a great crisis of one's life. Rupert had known he would have to leave Patterson and refuse his offer—or else speak and tell him his history, and, sub-consciously, he had decided to say nothing, make some excuse for refusing his offer and just leave Singapore, alone.
It was the sight of the Union Jack flying from the shore, the sound of the old English tune, "Home, Sweet Home," that had suddenly turned the scales and made him decide to leave his fate in Patterson's hands.
He thought of his father, of little Marjorie, his sister. And last of Ruby, the woman he loved!
They would have asked him to play the game.
So, over a final drink in the empty saloon, Rupert told his new friend, already his old friend, Jim Patterson, the story of his life, his imprisonment and escape from Dartmoor. He refrained from mentioning any names; he made no attempt to defend himself.
When he had finished Patterson ordered another drink, and then lit a cheroot. Having got his "smoke" well under way he rose and held out his hand.
Rupert took it hesitatingly. "I'm glad you told me, Cotton," Patterson said. "I rather flatter myself that I'm a judge of character. I knew the moment I saw you that you had a 'history.' I didn't want to know it, but I guess you feel better for having told me. A man who has gone through the fires and has got his fingers burnt is worth twice as much as the fellow who has never fought and blundered, suffered and gone on fighting. Now then, shut down on the past and ... get ashore!"
"You—you still want me to come with you?" Rupert stammered. "You still trust me?"
Patterson laughed. "Now, more than ever."