The convict uttered a groan, and caught the old man’s arm.
“I’ll say all I know, my lad; but you see—”
“Yes, yes,” said Leather hoarsely, “I know”; and he sat there on a block of wood which served as a stool, while the old gardener finished the dressing.
“There, that’s a spontanous bit o’ grafting,” he said, “and— ’Ullo! what’s that mean?”
He turned to the doorway, through which they could see Brookes mounted upon one of the horses and cantering straight away.
“Leather, my lad,” said the old man sharply, “he’s our fellow-servant, but he’s a cur. What’ll you do, my lad? He’s gone to Dillon’s, for a silver pound; he’ll make up his tale, and it means the cat.”
Leather sank back against the wall, and gazed wildly toward the house.
“If it was me I’d take to the bush, and—”
“What! not face it out!” cried the convict fiercely. “Own that I was in the wrong! Not if they flog me and send me back to the gang.”
The sudden excitement passed away, and the convict sank sidewise to the floor, perfectly insensible, for he had fainted dead away.