“Why don't you eat your gruel?”
Gabbett curled his great lips.
“I have eaten it. Ain't yer got nuffin' better nor that to flog a man on? Ugh! yer a mean lot! Wot's it to be this time, Major? Fifty?”
And laughing, he rolled down again on the logs.
“A nice specimen!” said Vickers, with a hopeless smile. “What can one do with such a fellow?”
“I'd flog his soul out of his body,” said Frere, “if he spoke to me like that!”
Troke and the others, hearing the statement, conceived an instant respect for the new-comer. He looked as if he would keep his word.
The giant raised his great head and looked at the speaker, but did not recognize him. He saw only a strange face—a visitor perhaps. “You may flog, and welcome, master,” said he, “if you'll give me a fig o' tibbacky.” Frere laughed. The brutal indifference of the rejoinder suited his humour, and, with a glance at Vickers, he took a small piece of cavendish from the pocket of his pea-jacket, and gave it to the recaptured convict. Gabbett snatched it as a cur snatches at a bone, and thrust it whole into his mouth.
“How many mates had he?” asked Maurice, watching the champing jaws as one looks at a strange animal, and asking the question as though a “mate” was something a convict was born with—like a mole, for instance.
“Three, sir.”