Here James Cromwell shuddered, and imprisonment, trial, conviction and the gallows, loomed up, an ugly and forbidding picture, before him. So weighed was his imagination with the terrors of the scene which he had conjured up before him, that when he was aroused from his musings by a slap on the shoulder, he started, and turned a terror-stricken countenance to the face that bent over him. He fancied for a moment that the terrible tragedy had been accomplished, and that the touch was that of a policeman who had been sent to arrest him.
"Why, Cromwell, what's the matter?" asked the other, in wonder. "You look as pale and scared as a ghost."
"Is it you, Hodgson?" said Cromwell, with an air of relief.
"Who did you think it was? You didn't think a policeman was after you, did you?" said Hodgson, jocosely.
"Oh, dear, no!" said Cromwell, laughing faintly. "I am not afraid of anything from that quarter. But the fact is, I have been getting nervous lately, and I think my health is affected."
"Why are you not in the shop? Got a furlough?"
"Yes, a permanent one. I resigned my situation on account of my health."
"Indeed! I don't see but you look about as usual—that is, now, though a minute ago, you looked pale enough."
"You can't always judge by appearances," said James Cromwell, shaking his head.