“Why? Because I behaved like a brute to you, and made believe to throw you down into that gully?”
“Don’t bring that up,” cried Nic angrily; “and don’t talk in that way, Leather. It isn’t you. It’s only put on.”
“Indeed,” said the man bitterly. “Well, I didn’t put it on, sir. It was fate.”
“There, I didn’t like to speak to you,” continued Nic; “but I must now. I’ve long wanted to, for of course I can’t help seeing how different you are from Brookes and old Sam. You are always showing me that you are a man of good education, and what a deal you know. It makes me ashamed sometimes.”
“Why?” said Leather sternly.
“To ask you to do all kinds of rough work when I feel that you are better educated than I am—that you must have been quite a gentleman.”
“Ah, don’t, boy!” cried Leather passionately, and with his face convulsed. “For Heaven’s sake hold your tongue.”
“I can’t now,” cried Nic, as excitedly. “I feel as if I must know. I do like you, Leather—I do really; and it worries me. I think of it at night when I go to bed, and it makes me wild to hear Brookes talk to you as he does.”
“Brookes is an honest man, sir; I’m a convict,” said Leather bitterly.
“There you are, going back to your old way!” cried Nic; “and it isn’t fair, after I’ve told you I liked you.”