“Hush!” cried Penelly again; and he clapped his hand once more upon the speaker’s lips.
“Oh, that won’t stop me from speaking!” said Zekle. “I’m going to tell all I know, and it’s my belief as they’ll have you up, and bring it in ’tempt to kill young Mas’r Harry.”
“But you won’t speak about it, Zekle,” said Penelly imploringly.
“But I just will,” said Zekle, “and I come to ask you what they’ll do to you for it. I don’t want to tell, but you see it’s ’bout my dooty.”
“I’ll give you anything to be silent.”
“But I must tell,” said Zekle, shaking his head; “it’s my dooty to, and I wouldn’t hold my tongue not for twenty pounds.”
Penelly gave a gasp, and in those few moments of thought he saw all the consequences of his escapade—the disgrace and shame—perhaps prosecution for an attempt at murder, for a magistrate might refuse to listen to his plea that it was only in fun.
But there was a gleam of hope. Zekle had mentioned money. He would not hold his tongue for twenty pounds he said. Perhaps he would. Penelly had not twenty pounds, nor yet five; but perhaps he could get it. Turning to Zekle then he said:
“If I give you ten pounds, Zekle, will you swear that you will never say a word?”
“No,” said Zekle stoutly, “nor yet for twenty; and now I’m going to tell all I know.”