“Think he’s shamming?” asked the man who had found him.
The fresh comer stooped down without hesitation, in spite of the warning from above; and after looking fixedly in the convict’s closely shaven face, passed his hand here and there about the prison clothes.
“Don’t feel nothing,” he said, “but this isn’t shamming. Here, hold up, my lad. Where are you hurt?”
There was no reply, and the cleanly cut, aristocratic features of the man looked very stony and fixed.
“I don’t think he’s shamming, mate,” whispered the warder, “but cover him with your piece; I don’t want to be hurt.”
It was an awkward place to use a rifle, but the warder addressed altered his position a little, and brought the muzzle of his piece to bear on the convict’s breast.
“Well, you two below there,” shouted the governor. “What do you make out?”
“One moment, sir. Ugh! No shamming here, mate. Feel his head.”
“Take your word for it,” said the other gruffly.
“Let’s have your rope, then, and send him up.”