“Right, sir! That’s British pluck, that is. How’s your chesty now?”
“Very bad, Bob.”
“Then sorry I am. Next time the doctor begins to talk you ups and asks him what he’s got in his medsome chest as is good for it. I say, though, I s’pose it’s no use to try and coax the doctor with a mossick of anything, is it?”
“Oh no, no.”
“Not a cup o’ tea and a bit o’ toast?”
“Not now, Bob; he’s sleeping calmly, and that must be the best thing for him.”
“Right, sir. It’s Natur’s finest fizzick, as well I know. There, I’ll go and have a snap myself, for it’s the middle o’ the night, and I haven’t had a bite since breakfast.”
There was silence then, and Carey thought the man had stolen softly away; so he was trying to keep his promise, though the first effort he made to partake of the food gave him intense pain. Then he started, for Bostock said softly:
“He’s pretty quiet now, sir; I hope he aren’t hatching any noo tricks again’ us. Tell you what it is; I’m going down to him to-morrow with a mattress to see if I can’t smother him down till I’ve got his shooting irons away. We shan’t feel safe till that’s done. My word! I should like to chain him up in the cable tier till we could hand him over to the ’Stralian police.”
“Yes,” said Carey, gravely. “Bob, that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard you say.”