For four days I heard nothing more. On the Friday, my Uncle Charles told us that rumours were abroad of the escape of a prisoner, and he hoped it might be Angus. My Aunt Dorothea wanted to hear all the particulars. I sat and listened, looking as grave as I could.
“Why, it seems they must have bribed some fellow to carry in a basket of foul clothes, and then to change clothes with the prisoner, and so let him get out. There appears to have been a girl in it as well—a girl and a man. I suppose they were both bribed, very likely. Anyhow, the prisoner is set free, I only hope it is young Drummond, Cary.”
I said I hoped so too.
“But, dear me, what will become of the man that went in?” asked my Aunt Dorothea.
“Oh, he’ll be hanged, sure enough,” said my Uncle Charles. “Only some low fellow, I suppose, that was willing to sell himself.”
“A man does not sell his life in a hurry,” said my Aunt Dorothea.
“My dear,” replied my Uncle Charles, “there are men who would sell their own mothers and children.”
“Oh, I dare say, but not themselves,” said she.
“I suppose somebody cared for him,” observed Hatty.