Rufus Dawes laughed, with a sort of bitterness in his tones. “Do you think I have been at 'the settlement' all my life? The thing is very simple, it is merely evaporation.”
Frere burst out in sudden, fretful admiration: “What a fellow you are, Dawes! What are you—I mean, what have you been?”
A triumphant light came into the other's face, and for the instant he seemed about to make some startling revelation. But the light faded, and he checked himself with a gesture of pain.
“I am a convict. Never mind what I have been. A sailor, a shipbuilder, prodigal, vagabond—what does it matter? It won't alter my fate, will it?”
“If we get safely back,” says Frere, “I'll ask for a free pardon for you. You deserve it.”
“Come,” returned Dawes, with a discordant laugh. “Let us wait until we get back.”
“You don't believe me?”
“I don't want favour at your hands,” he said, with a return of the old fierceness. “Let us get to work. Bring up the rushes here, and tie them with a fishing line.”
At this instant Sylvia came up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dawes. Hard at work? Oh! what's this in the kettle?” The voice of the child acted like a charm upon Rufus Dawes. He smiled quite cheerfully.
“Salt, miss. I am going to catch the goats with that.”