‘Poor devil!’ said Mr. Jarvis.
‘I was maddened with rage. Up in London my wife lay ill, perhaps dying—for her last letter was written in a hand that told its own weakness, though she spoke hopefully. I had counted the days till I should see her again—and now, oh! sir, can you blame me if when I saw at last a chance of escape I seized it? That chance came to-day. I escaped from the guard who were marching us to some outdoor work, and you know the rest. I am here at your mercy; but for God’s sake save me! Think of my poor wife! Think——’
The man spoke no more.
In his excitement he had moved too hastily and hurt the twisted ankle; the anguish was so great that he fainted dead away.
‘There, there, my poor fellow!—don’t you fidget. You lie still. We’ll carry you safe to London, or my name is not Lizer Jarvis.’
The speaker was Mrs. Jarvis, and the person addressed was the escaped convict.
Mr. Jarvis had consulted his better half before deciding what to do, and when she had heard the story, the good soul’s motherly heart went out to the poor man, and she determined he should not be given up.
So the baggage-waggon was brought up close to the living-van, and the poor fellow was lifted carefully out and put up snugly in a corner and covered over with a rug, and Mrs. Jarvis, who was clever at sprains and bruises, soon found out what was the matter with his ankle, and bound it up with cold-water bandages.
‘Now, all you’ve got to do is to keep still,’ she said, ‘and lie close, and we’ll get up to our crib in London, and there we can rig you out, and then you must look out for yourself.’