Smith was careful not to sit next to the Baker, for he wished to be as friendly as possible with those who might resent with a gold club any sign of suspicion or aloofness. He squatted amicably between two of the men, and held out his hand to the blaze.
"How goes it, matey?" said the Baker.
"Bully," said Smith. "And you?"
"Fust-rate," said the Baker. "I'm all at 'ome, and makin' a regular sing-song. These chaps are a good sort, a bally good sort."
"I should have been dead now but for them," said Smith, and catching Bill's eyes shining under his matted forelock.
Bill appealed for his pipe. It was lighted and passed round; the boys and girls each took their turn to splutter and cough over the magical instrument. When it was returned to Smith, he was glad that it was out, for he would have felt obliged to continue smoking without wiping the mouth-piece. As he filled it again he managed to do that furtively.
"Sing again, Baker," said Bill, showing his teeth. And the Baker began the song of the old convicts:
"I'm off by the morning train
To cross the raging main."
And to the astonishment of Smith, they all burst in and joined the Baker, knowing both the air and the words. He sat as if he was turned into stone and could not sing, for his jaw had dropped.
But when they came to the lines,