“Hi! Sir Gordon!”
The old gentleman turned as a big-bearded man cantered up over the rough land by the track, some six months after the prison gates had closed upon Robert Hallam.
“Oh, it’s you!” said Sir Gordon, shading his eyes from the blazing sun. “Well?”
“Don’t be rough on a fellow, Sir Gordon. I’ve been a big blackguard, I know, but somehow I never had a chance from the first. I want to do the right thing now.”
“Humph! Pretty well time,” said the old man. “Well, what is it?”
The man hesitated as if struggling with shame, and he thought himself weak, but he struck his boot heavily with his whip, and took off his broad felt hat.
“I’ll do it,” he said sharply to himself. Then, aloud: “Look here, sir, I’m sick of it.”
“Humph! then you’d better leave it,” said the old man with an angry sneer. “Go and give yourself up, and join your old companion.”
“That’s rough!” said Crellock with a grim smile. “How hard you good people can be on a fellow when he’s down!”
“What have you ever done to deserve anything else, you scoundrel?” cried Sir Gordon fiercely. “Twenty thousand pounds of my money you and your rogue of a companion had, and I’m tramping through this blazing sun, while you ride a blood horse.”