Neville had never yet failed of a benefit for lack of asking, so now he set up a tattoo with his fists on the wall.
"What's wanted within there?" came gruffly from the guard.
"What would you want if you'd been shut up in this cold hole for a night and a day?"
"I might want ortolans and pheasants and a bottle of old Madeira; but if I was a murderer, and as good as a dead man myself, I shouldn't look to get them—not in this world."
Neville kept his temper. It was all he had left.
"Maybe not; but if you saw a fellow outside, with a pipe in his mouth and a tobacco pouch in his pocket, and another pipe bulging out at the breast of his jerkin, it's likely you'd count on his taking pity on the poor devil locked up inside, and giving him a bit smoke."
The guard weakened visibly. Neville could see through the crack that he half turned and put his hand irresolutely to his pocket. Then he straightened himself more rigidly.
"How do I know but you want to set the tobacco-house afire? And then off you'd be, and 'tis I must answer for you to the Governor—a just man, but hard on one that fails in his duty."
"Come, then," called Neville more cheerfully, feeling his point half won; "why not come in and smoke with me? Then you can keep an eye on me and the tobacco together, and it will be a comfort to me to have speech of a fellow mortal instead of being tormented by my cursed unpleasant thoughts."