“I haven't had that taste in my mouth for four years,” he said, returning the flask. “And you are guilty of felony!”
The fisherman probably knew this, for he merely laughed.
“Do you know Prince Town?” the convict asked abruptly.
The other nodded, glancing in the direction of the rising moor.
“And you've read the rules on the gate? Parcere subjectis, cut in the stone over the top. Good God!”
The fisherman nodded again.
“The question is,” said the convict, after a pause, during which they had waded back to the bank, “whether you are going to help me or not? Heavens! I NEARLY killed you while you were playing that fish.”
“Ya-as,” drawled the fisherman. “I take it that you must have been tempted. I never heard you, owing to the rush of the water.”
They were both big men, and the convict stared curiously into the long, clean-shaven face of this calm speaker. A smile actually flickered for a moment in his desperate eyes.
“What I want,” he said, “is your mackintosh, your waders, and your hat—also your rod-case with a long stick in it. The handle of your landing-net will do. Where do you come from?”