“Now, Don Florencio, you can finish the little job you were interrupted at, without much fear of having to knock off again.”
At which he raised the chain, and held it rested on something firmer than the cushion of a carriage. So placed, the file made better progress, and in a short time the link was cut through, letting them walk freely apart.
“Caballero!” exclaimed the Mexican, assuming an attitude as if about to propose a toast; “may our friendship be more difficult to sever than that chain, and hold us longer together—for life, I hope.”
Kearney would not have been a son of Erin to refuse reciprocating the pretty compliment, which he did with all due warmth and readiness.
But his work was not over. Rock and Zorillo had yet to be uncoupled; the former, perhaps, longing to be delivered more than any of the four. He had conceived a positive disgust for the hunchback; though, as already said, less on account of the creature’s physical than moral deformity, of which last he had ample evidence during the short while they were together. Nor had it needed for him to understand what the latter said. A natural physiognomist, he could read in Zorillo’s eyes the evil disposition of the animal from which he drew his name.
As Kearney approached him with the file, the Texan raising his foot, and planting it on a ledge of rock, said—
“Cut through thar, Cap—the link as air nixt to my ankle-clasp.”
This was different to what had been done with the other, which had been severed centrally. It was not intended to take off the whole of the chains yet. The Mexican said there was no time for so much filing; that must be done when they got farther on.
“Yer see, Cap,” added Rock, giving a reason for the request, “’fore it’s all over, who knows I mayn’t need full leg freedom ’ithoot any hamper? So gie the dwarf the hul o’ the chain to carry. He desarve to hev it, or suthin’ else, round his thrapple ’stead o’ his leg. This chile have been contagious to the grist o’ queer company in his perambulations roun’ and about; but niver sech as he. The sight of him air enough to give a nigger the gut ache.”
And in his quaint vernacular he thus rambled on all the time Kearney was at work, his rude speech being an appropriate symphony to the rasping of the file.