“Leave one red card and one black with me.”
While Fry was gong the chaplain examined the cards with curiosity and that admiration of inventive resource which a superior mind cannot help feeling. There they were, a fine red deuce of hearts and a fine black four of spades—cards made without pasteboard and painted without paint. But how? that was the question. The chaplain entered upon this question with his usual zeal; but happening to reverse one of the cards, it was his fate to see on the back of it:
“THE WAGES OF SIN ARE DEATH.”
A Tract.
He reddened at the sight. Here was an affront! “The sulky brute could amuse himself cutting up my tracts!”
Presently the governor came up with his satellites.
“Take No. 19 out of his cell for punishment.”
At this word the chaplain's short-lived anger began to cool. They brought Robinson out.
“So you have been at it again,” cried the governor in threatening terms. “Now you will tell me where you got the paint to make these beauties with?”
No answer.
“Do you hear, ye sulky brute?”