There was every description of crime-marked aspect—sullen despair, with boisterous and singing men; but as the slow march continued, one struck up a kind of chant, in which all joined, greatly to the annoyance of a sergeant of foot, who, with four privates, with fixed bayonets, formed the escort.
“It’s all right, sojer!” shouted one. “Heel and toe!”
“Hullo, sailor!” shouted another. “Here, mates; here’s a chap out of that barque. How’s mother country, old ’un?”
“Come; get on, men,” said the sergeant, keeping a sharp look-out for evaders.
The mate did not answer the fellow, but coolly stopped to watch the strange procession pass; for he rightly judged it to be a gang of convicts returning from work.
“I’d give two days and a half for that half cigar you’re smoking, guv’ner,” said one of the convicts to the young sailor.
And then, as the gang moved on, a dark sun-browned fellow came abreast, and observed quietly, as one gentleman might to another:
“Have you another cigar about you, sir?”
Edward Murray started, and then turned on his heel, and walked beside the speaker.
“I really have not another,” he said hastily; “but here’s some tobacco;” and he thrust a large packet he had but an hour before bought into the man’s hand.