“Fretted hisself to sleep, yer reverence,” said Hailes, in accents of parental concern. “Poor young chap! It's hard for such young 'uns.”
In the morning, Rufus Dawes, coming to his place on the chain-gang, was struck by the altered appearance of Kirkland. His face was of a greenish tint, and wore an expression of bewildered horror.
“Cheer up, man!” said Dawes, touched with momentary pity. “It's no good being in the mopes, you know.”
“What do they do if you try to bolt?” whispered Kirkland.
“Kill you,” returned Dawes, in a tone of surprise at so preposterous a question.
“Thank God!” said Kirkland.
“Now then, Miss Nancy,” said one of the men, “what's the matter with you!” Kirkland shuddered, and his pale face grew crimson.
“Oh,” he said, “that such a wretch as I should live!”
“Silence!” cried Troke. “No. 44, if you can't hold your tongue I'll give you something to talk about. March!”
The work of the gang that afternoon was the carrying of some heavy logs to the water-side, and Rufus Dawes observed that Kirkland was exhausted long before the task was accomplished. “They'll kill you, you little beggar!” said he, not unkindly. “What have you been doing to get into this scrape?”