“Plymouth. I am going back by the seven-thirty from Horrabridge.”
“With a return ticket?”
“Yes.”
“I should like that also.”
The fisherman was slowly disjointing his rod.
“Suppose I told you to come and take 'em?” he said, with the drawl again.
The convict looked him up and down with a certain air of competent criticism.
“Then there would be a very pretty fight,” he said, with a laugh, which he checked when he detected the savour of the prison-yard that was in it.
“We haven't time for the fight,” said the fisherman.
And there came a hot gasp of excitement from the convict's lips. His stake was a very large one.