‘What’s in the wind now, Muster Gashford?’ he said, as he resumed his pipe, and looked at him askew. ‘Any orders from head-quarters? Are we going to begin? What is it, Muster Gashford?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ rejoined the secretary, with a friendly nod to Hugh. ‘We have broken the ice, though. We had a little spurt to-day—eh, Dennis?’
‘A very little one,’ growled the hangman. ‘Not half enough for me.’
‘Nor me neither!’ cried Hugh. ‘Give us something to do with life in it—with life in it, master. Ha, ha!’
‘Why, you wouldn’t,’ said the secretary, with his worst expression of face, and in his mildest tones, ‘have anything to do, with—with death in it?’
‘I don’t know that,’ replied Hugh. ‘I’m open to orders. I don’t care; not I.’
‘Nor I!’ vociferated Dennis.
‘Brave fellows!’ said the secretary, in as pastor-like a voice as if he were commending them for some uncommon act of valour and generosity. ‘By the bye’—and here he stopped and warmed his hands: then suddenly looked up—‘who threw that stone to-day?’
Mr Dennis coughed and shook his head, as who should say, ‘A mystery indeed!’ Hugh sat and smoked in silence.
‘It was well done!’ said the secretary, warming his hands again. ‘I should like to know that man.’