“You have to me been a friend. Now to you I will be a friend. I will go to your aunt.”
“No, no, no.”
“Stop, my friend. I will tell her what you do wish me to speak. No dings more. Shall I go?”
“Tell her,” I said, “that we are well and happy. No, tell her we are wretched. No, no. Jill, what shall we tell her?”
“Well,” said Jill, with his old smile, “you can’t say we’re jolly. Just say we won’t come back. That we want to get a ship to go to mother.”
“No, Jill, not like that, a ship to go to sea. They will not take us without aunt’s leave—then, we must get it.”
“Ah!” cried the convict, “dat is sensibeel now. You speak like one young man. I go to-night. You stay in de cave. Do not be seen. I will quickly return.”
“But you will not bring Aunt Serapheema!”
I felt angry at the time for speaking thus, but I could not help it. To have been dragged back now would have broken both our hearts, of this I am convinced.
“No,” said the convict. “As I am a good Catholic—no.”