"What about Tom?" whispered the Cockney.
"I don't know," said Smith. "But I reckon it will be a fair division. He'll go with Hicks."
There was a short silence. But presently Smith was touched.
"And you, Smith, ain't you scared?"
"Scared," said Smith bitterly, "what have I to be scared of? Hell here or there or anywhere? And death—well, what's life here, eh? And how shall I ever get back without money? Ah, you don't know. But for money, young chap, they will pardon the devil."
"Yes," said the Baker; but he couldn't help wondering how a clergyman's son ever got into such a way of talking.
"'E must 'ave run through a 'eap of cash," he said to himself. "But there, it's all one, and I'm with 'im." And he fell asleep.
The others had been talking too, and the result of that talk was seen when Hicks rose about eleven and rolled up his blankets. Tom imitated him in silence. But when they brought the horses up, Hicks roused Smith.
"We're off back, Smith," he said.
"Eh!" said Smith drowsily, "what's up?"