“You here?” said Jack, starting up and catching the rough fellow by the arm.
“Here?—ay!” growled Bart, slowly. “Where did you think I was, lad?”
“I didn’t think, Bart, or I shouldn’t have said that,” cried Jack, earnestly. “Where would you be but at my elbow if I was in trouble, ready to be of help?”
“Ay, but there’s no helping you here, lad,” said Bart with a groan.
“No helping me! But you can, Bart. Do you wonder that I hate the world?—that I see it all as one crowd of enemies fighting against me and trying to crush me down? Not help me! Oh, but you shall! My poor brother! They shall pay heavily for this!”
“What’ll you do, lad?” said Bart, despondently.
“Do!” cried Jack, with a savage laugh—“do what poor Abel always hung back from doing, and stopped Black Mazzard from many a time. I don’t read my Bible now, Bart; but doesn’t it say that there shall be blood for blood; and my poor brother’s cries aloud for vengeance, as they shall see!”
“No, no, my lad,” whispered Bart, hoarsely; “let it stop here. It seems to me as if something said: ‘This here’s the end on it. Now get her to go back home.’”
“Home!” said Jack, with a fierce laugh. “Where is home?”
“Yonder,” said Bart, stolidly.