Now, in surveying Dirty Dick’s shifty countenance, the thought came to me for the first time—Could he, that insignificant looking wretch, have been the betrayer of Brettle before his last conviction? I could scarcely credit it, but if it was he, then the fact would point to a long-standing grudge and a revengeful feeling not yet satiated. Now, I had never given Dick credit for brain enough to conceive and nourish a good hatred, and one does not care to discover a flaw in his own estimate of another’s character.
After a little further conversation, from which I learned that it was not yet settled how Brettle was to distinguish himself, I parted with Dick, he kindly volunteering to “see me again” as soon as he had important information to tender.
For a day or two after I could not be called idle. The foremost question in my mind was—Why does Dirty Dick wish Brettle laid up for ten years? and all my work was in the direction of a feasible explanation or answer. I searched, and questioned, and ferreted in every conceivable direction, but was only left more puzzled than before. Dick, I found, had had no quarrel with Brettle, nor could I discover that he had any grudge against the ticket-of-leave man. I discovered also that it was absolutely impossible that Dick could have been the cause of Brettle’s last capture, as at the time Dick had himself been fulfilling a three months’ sentence for theft.
I happened one afternoon to meet Brettle himself, and, though he generally showed great hostility to me, and never exchanged words with me if he could avoid it, I thought I would have a word with him in passing.
“How are you getting on Bob?” I pleasantly asked, before he could hurry past.
“Not getting on at all,” he gloomily answered. “I’ve been trying to get work, but can’t.”
I opened my eyes to their widest, and for a moment could scarcely speak.
“What kind of work?” I cautiously inquired, thinking he might mean his adopted trade of housebreaking.
“Any kind—anything to keep life in me,” he cried, with some bitterness. “I’m sick of prison, and don’t mean to go inside of one again if I can live on the square.”
I could scarcely trust my own senses. I had never expected such words out of his mouth; and then, after the hint I had received from Dirty Dick, I was doubly suspicious, and must have looked the feeling. Could it be possible that he was trying to deceive me for some purpose? I could not believe it. It was quite out of his line. He was not of the stuff out of which a good hypocrite could be made.