"They'll live in your home, they'll revel in your money, while you wear a cropped head—and a convict dress—in a stone cell at Portland."
"No, never!" screamed Bartley. "Man, man; you are tempting me to my perdition!"
"I am saving you. Just consider—where is the risk? It is only an accident, and who will suspect you? Men don't ruin their own mines. Here, just let me call him."
Bartley made a faint gesture to forbid it, but Monckton pretended to take that as an assent.
"Hy, Ben," he cried, "come here."
"No, no," cried Bartley, "I'll have nothing to do with him."
"Well," said Monckton, "then don't, but hear what he has got to say; he'll tell you how easily accidents happen in a mine."
Then Burnley came in, but stood at some distance. Bartley turned his back upon them both, and edged away from them a little; but Monckton stood between the two men, determined to bring them together.
"Ben," said he, "Mr. Bartley takes you on again at my request, no thanks to Mr. Hope."
"No, curse him; I know that."