A second note passed from hand to hand.
“Thanks,” said the convict. “Now, tell me your name and address; I shall want to send these things back to you if—if I have any luck.”
And the effort to steady his voice was quite apparent.
“Caleb S. Harkness, United States frigate Bruiser, now lying at Plymouth,” replied the other, tersely.
“Ah! you are an American?”
“That is why I don't care a d—n for your laws.”
“MR. Harkness—or what?”
“I'm her captain,” he replied modestly.
They shook hands and parted.
It was only as he plodded along the Tavistock Road, limping in the regulation shoes, that the American remembered that he had quite omitted to ask the convict any questions. He had parted with his mackintosh, and it was pouring. Tavistock was two miles off, and he had no notion what trains there were to Plymouth. Yet he regretted nothing, and at times a queer smile flitted over his countenance. He was a man holding very decided views of his own upon most subjects, and no one suspected him of it, because he never sought to force them upon others. What he loved above all in men was that species of audacious and gentlemanly coolness which is found in greater perfection in the ranks of the British aristocracy than anywhere else in the world.