“Haven’t you heard?”
“Yes. That Irish fellow told me a yarn about your being attacked; but it won’t wash, you know,” and he winked.
“Fact—upon my oath!”
“And you didn’t do for friend R.T.?”
“Devil a bit! I meant to; but the niggers were too sharp for us. They winged me into the bargain, as you see.”
“Then he didn’t pink you?”
“Confound it, no. The niggers did. It’s about the queerest thing, I suppose, that ever happened.”
“It is,” assented Payne, lighting his pipe.
Claverton could see that the other only half believed him, but he didn’t care.
Payne smoked on in silence for a few moments. He appeared to be intently contemplating a chip of wood which lay on the floor, and which he was poking at with a riding-crop. At length he said: