“Spicer,” said I, “that you will die without fear I know very well; but still, you know that you should not die without feeling sorry for the sins you have committed, and praying for pardon. We have all of us, the very best of us, to make our peace with Heaven; so, had I not better tell the chaplain to come and talk with you?”
“No, Jack, no; I want no parsons praying by my side. What’s done is done, and can’t be undone. Go now, Jack, I wish to get a little sleep.”
“Shall I come and see you to-morrow, Spicer?”
“Yes, come when you will; I like to have some one to talk to; it keeps me from thinking.”
I wished him good day, and went away with the book in my hand. Before I went home. I sought out old Anderson, and told him what had passed. “He will not see the chaplain, Anderson, but perhaps he will see you; and, by degrees, you can bring him to the subject. It is dreadful that a man should die in that way.”
“Alas for the pride of us wretched worms!” ejaculated Anderson; “he talks of dying game,—that is to say, he defies his Maker. Yes, Jack, I will go and see him; and happy I am that he has a few days to live. I will see him to-night, but will not say much to him, or he might refuse my coming again.”
I went home. I was not in a very gay humour, for the sight of Spicer’s leg, and the announcement of his situation, had made a deep impression upon me. I sat down to read the book which Spicer had made me a present of. I was interrupted by my mother requesting me to go a message for her, and during my absence Virginia had taken up the book.
“Who lent you this book, Tom?” said she, when I returned.
“Spicer, the man whom they call Black Sam, who is now dying in the hospital.”
“Well, that’s not the name on the title-page—it is Walter James, Tynemouth.”