On and on we rattled through the darkness. Tom and I exhausted our topics of conversation, and for the time being relapsed into silence. Guilty as I knew my fellow-passengers were of serious crimes, I could not help in a way feeling sorry for them, and contrasting their journey with mine—I myself on the way to the enjoyment of a jolly Christmas holiday with friends at home, and they to banishment from their native land, and to hard servitude beyond the sea.
The cold, too, was intense. I felt it, though warmly clad, and made sure that the poor wretches on the seats behind must be chilled to the bone. Even burly Tom Barker, protected with a driving coat and a big shawl, growled out that "it was a sharp un to-night, and no mistake," by which I understood him to imply that it was freezing hard.
At length, at the end of a stage, as we drew up outside an inn very similar to the Sportsman, Tom prepared to dismount from his perch, and invited me to do the same. I preferred, however, to remain where I was, and was watching the stablemen removing the horses, when, to my surprise, I heard a man's voice behind me pronounce my name.
"Mr. Eden."
Turning sharply, I found the convict directly behind me leaning forward in his seat. The bright light which shone out through the open door of the inn fell directly on his face, and I was shocked to recognize the rugged features of the man Lewis, in whose boat at Rockymouth, on more than one occasion, Miles and I had gone fishing.
"Excuse me, sir," continued the man. "I knew you as soon as you got up at Round Green. Maybe you've heard from Mr. Miles how I come to this. A tussle with the preventive men was what done it. I'm no thief."
Had it not been for the sadness of the situation, I could almost have smiled at this fresh proof of the dogged conviction, entertained by this man and his class, that defrauding the revenue was no crime.
"I should like to have said good-bye to Mr. Miles," continued Lewis. "Give him my respects when you see him. I suppose, sir, you haven't got such a thing as a bit of baccy about you?"
Remembering our holiday excursions, and somehow contrasting his present hapless condition with the freedom of the great sea, I could not but pity the unhappy fellow. I shook my head, signifying that I had not.
The next moment Tom Barker emerged from the inn, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. He clambered into his place; there was a "Give 'em their heads, Dick," and we were off again.