Chapter Twenty Six.
Meeting and Parting.
Reginald was infinitely more lonely now and altogether more of a prisoner too. Neither Captain Dickson nor the four sailors returned by the same ship, so, with the exception of the detective, who really was a kind-hearted and feeling man, he had no one to converse with.
He was permitted to come up twice a day and walk the deck forward by way of exercise, but a policeman always hovered near. If the truth must be told, he would have preferred staying below. The passengers were chiefly Yankees on their way to London Paris, and the Riviera, but as soon as he appeared there was an eager rush forward as far as midships, and as he rapidly paced the deck, the prisoner was as cruelly criticised as if he had been some show animal or wild beast. It hurt Reginald not a little, and more than once during his exercise hour his cheeks would burn and tingle with shame.
When he walked forward as far as the winch, he turned and walked aft again, and it almost broke his heart—for he dearly loved children—to see those on the quarter-deck clutch their mothers’ skirts, or hide behind them screaming.
“Oh, ma, he’s coming—the awful man is coming?”
“He isn’t so terrible-looking, is he, auntie?” said a beautiful young girl one day, quite aloud, too.
“Ah, child, but remember what he has done. Even a tiger can look soft and pleasant and beautiful at times.”
“Well,” said another lady, “he will hang as high as Haman, anyhow!”
“And richly deserves it,” exclaimed a sour-looking, scraggy old maid. “I’m sure I should dearly like to see him strung. He won’t walk so boldly along the scaffold, I know, and his face will be a trifle whiter then!”