There was a movement among the men at the door as this order was given, and Pete winced; but even a man newly fettered can still feel pride, and the poor fellow determined that his old comrades should not think he was afraid of them. He walked boldly up to take his place, meeting Humpy’s malignant look of triumph without shrinking, and turning quickly directly after with a feeling of pity as he heard the overseer summon Nic to take his place in turn.
“Now’s your time, my lad,” Pete said to himself. “Speak out like a man, and if you ask me to, I’ll back you up—I will.”
He looked on excitedly, wondering whether Nic’s wits were still with him, as but so short a time ago they had only returned to him like a flash and then passed away, leaving him, as it were, in the dark.
It was very still in the hot, close place, and every word spoken sounded strangely loud in the calm of the late afternoon.
“Lighter irons,” said the overseer to the big black; and there was the clinking sound of the great links as the man handed the fetters from the basket.
“And him not shrinking,” thought Pete. “Give me quite a turn. He can’t understand.”
The big black took the fetters and balanced them in his hand, looking at his superior as much as to say, “Will these do?”
The overseer took a step or two forward and grasped the chain, to stand holding it, gazing frowningly the while at Nic, who met his gaze without blenching.
“Why don’t you speak—why don’t you speak?” muttered Pete. “Can’t you see that now’s your time?”
“You’ve been bad, haven’t you?” said the overseer roughly.