“Have you ever been in that—that place I was in last night?” asked Kirkland.
Rufus Dawes nodded.
“Does the Commandant know what goes on there?”
“I suppose so. What does he care?”
“Care! Man, do you believe in a God?” “No,” said Dawes, “not here. Hold up, my lad. If you fall, we must fall over you, and then you're done for.”
He had hardly uttered the words, when the boy flung himself beneath the log. In another instant the train would have been scrambling over his crushed body, had not Gabbett stretched out an iron hand, and plucked the would-be suicide from death.
“Hold on to me, Miss Nancy,” said the giant, “I'm big enough to carry double.”
Something in the tone or manner of the speaker affected Kirkland to disgust, for, spurning the offered hand, he uttered a cry and then, holding up his irons with his hands, he started to run for the water.
“Halt! you young fool,” roared Troke, raising his carbine. But Kirkland kept steadily on for the river. Just as he reached it, however, the figure of Mr. North rose from behind a pile of stones. Kirkland jumped for the jetty, missed his footing, and fell into the arms of the chaplain.
“You young vermin—you shall pay for this,” cries Troke. “You'll see if you won't remember this day.”