“And I will imitate your candour, and ask what the devil you, a common thief, mean by asking a gentleman for his parole?”
“Rash blood, sir—hot, rash blood. I was older than you before I learnt to pick my words. But, without that little one of yours, I much fear that I shall be unable to relieve you of this temporary inconvenience.”
“Why, zounds, Mr. Fern! You are here in force, it seems—a dozen or more blazing cut-throats to keep the cage.”
“Honest fellows and well to be trusted, sir. At the same time you are noted for being a gentleman of daring and resource (I must really make you that acknowledgment), and far be it from me to risk the least of those scenes of violence that my soul abhors.”
“Botany Bay has made you squeamish, it appears. Have you buried the hatchet with which you killed Cutwater?”
Mr. Fern shrugged up his hands deprecatingly.
“It pains me,” he said gently, “to hear a repetition of that old slander at this date.”
“What! you didn’t murder the miserable rogue, and help to string him up afterwards?”
“Such an old slander, sir; and is the age of reason never to be forgiven its youthful peccadilloes?”
“Oh! I cry you mercy, Mr. Fern. If this was a peccadillo, I can understand your abhorring violence.”