“You do: I telled you. He zays, as you heered, that I set the zailors on ’em to get ’em brought out here.”
Nic said nothing.
“He means to kill me one o’ these days. He’ll hit me on the head, or pitch me into the river, or zomething; and the others won’t interfere.”
Nic looked up at the speaker quickly.
“Comes hard on me,” continued Pete. “I never done nothing, and they keeps me off, and don’t speak; and you don’t, Master Nic, zo I zeem all alone like. It makes me feel zometimes as if I must make mates o’ the blacks, but I s’pose they wouldn’t care for me. Wish I’d got drowned.”
Nic raised his head to look in the man’s face; but the old trouble rankled in his breast. His heart would not go out to him, fellow-sufferers though they were.
It was so several times over, Pete trying hard to show what goodwill he could under their painful circumstances; but it was not until that day out in the corn-rows, when Pete helped him with his work at a time when the heat was trying his barely-recovered strength, that Nic felt that perhaps there was some truth in the man’s story. At any rate, he was showing himself repentant if guilty, and the prisoner recalled how Pete had nursed him and without doubt had saved his life.
Pete went on hoeing till he had worked level with Nic, and then he worked harder to get as far ahead as he could before slipping back to his own row, for Nic to return to his with once more a good start, and a feeling of gratitude for his companion’s kindness, which softened his voice next time he spoke, and delighted Pete, who began talking at once.
“Know where they keep the boat, Master Nic?” he said, as they worked away.
“No. Do you?”