“If there is any man here,” he said slowly, “who wants to wake up at seven o’clock in the morning and meet a gentleman who will strap his hands behind him and a person who will pray over him—if there’s any man here that wants a short walk after breakfast between two lines of warders to a little shed where a brand new rope is hanging from the roof, he’s at liberty to do what he likes with old George, but not in this house.”
He fixed his eyes on Vinnis.
“And if there’s any man here,” he went on, “who’s already in the shadow of the rope, so that one or two murders more won’t make much difference one way or the other, he can do as he likes—outside this house.”
Vinnis shrank back.
“There’s nothing against me,” he growled.
“The rope,” muttered the old man, “Vinnis for the rope,” he chuckled to himself. “I fear they counted too implicitly upon the fact that I am not always quite myself—Vinnis——”
The man he spoke of sprang to his feet with a snarl like a trapped beast.
“Sit down—you.”
Bat Sands, with his red head close-cropped, thrust his chair in the direction of the infuriated Vinnis.
“What Connor says is true—we’re not going to croak the old man, and we’re not going to croak ourselves. If we hang, it will be something worth hanging for. As to the old man, he’s soft, an’ that’s all you can say. He’s got to be kept close——”