“Nothing, oh nothing,” said Harry, now assuming a treacherous, tropical calmness—“nothing, Redburn; nothing in the world. I’m the serenest of men.”
“But give me that dirk,” he suddenly cried—“let me have it, I say. Oh! I don’t mean to murder myself—I’m past that now—give it me”—and snatching it from my hand, he flung down an empty purse, and with a terrific stab, nailed it fast with the dirk to the table.
“There now,” he cried, “there’s something for the old duke to see to-morrow morning; that’s about all that’s left of me— that’s my skeleton, Wellingborough. But come, don’t be downhearted; there’s a little more gold yet in Golconda; I have a guinea or two left. Don’t stare so, my boy; we shall be in Liverpool to-morrow night; we start in the morning”—and turning his back, he began to whistle very fiercely.
“And this, then,” said I, “is your showing me London, is it, Harry? I did not think this; but tell me your secret, whatever it is, and I will not regret not seeing the town.”
He turned round upon me like lightning, and cried, “Red-burn! you must swear another oath, and instantly.”
“And why?” said I, in alarm, “what more would you have me swear?”
“Never to question me again about this infernal trip to London!” he shouted, with the foam at his lips—“never to breathe it! swear!”
“I certainly shall not trouble you, Harry, with questions, if you do not desire it,” said I, “but there’s no need of swearing.”
“Swear it, I say, as you love me, Redburn,” he added, imploringly.
“Well, then, I solemnly do. Now lie down, and let us forget ourselves as soon as we can; for me, you have made me the most miserable dog alive.”