Vince stopped his walk to and fro at the end of the beaten-out track in the sand, and turned off to stand behind Mike, who must have heard him come, but did not make the slightest movement.
Then there was silence, broken by the voice of the French captain giving his orders to his men, who were evidently rearranging the stores ready for removal.
“I say, Mike,” said Vince at last.
No answer.
“Michael.”
Still no movement. “Mr Michael Ladelle.”
Vince might have been speaking to the tub upon which his fellow-prisoner was seated, for all the movement made.
“Michael Ladelle, Esquire, of the Mount,” said Vince; and there was a good-humoured look in his eyes, which twinkled merrily; but the other did not stir.
“Ladle, then,” cried Vince; but without effect,—Mike was still gazing at the sand before him.
“I say, don’t be such a sulky old Punch. Why don’t you speak? I want to talk to you about getting away. Mike—Ladle—I say, you did hurt when you hit out at me. I shall have to pay you that back!”