“Now,” said his confessor, “having told me thus much, will you not give me what information you can concerning the band to which you belong, their names, crimes, and purposes?”
“Ask Jack Gallagher. He knows more than I do.”
Gallagher, who had been brought into an adjoining apartment, separated from the one in which this conversation occurred by a thin board partition, on hearing this reference to himself, poured forth a torrent of profane abuse upon the head of his guilty confederate.
“It is just such cowardly rascals and traitors as you,” said he, “that have brought us into this difficulty. You ought to die for your treachery.”
“I have dared death in all its forms,” said Helm, “and I do not fear to die. Give me some whiskey.”
The guilty wretch, having been consigned to the custody of keepers, steeped what little sensibility he possessed in whiskey, and passed the time until the execution in ribald jesting and profanity.
Jack Gallagher bounded into the committee-room, swearing and laughing, as if the whole affair was intended as a good joke.
“What,” said he, with an oath and epithet appended to every word, “is it all about? This is a pretty break, isn’t it?”
On being informed of the charges against him, and the sentence of the Committee, he dropped into a seat and began to cry. In a few moments he jumped up, and with much expletive emphasis demanded the names of the persons who had informed against him.
“It was ‘Red,’ who was hanged a few weeks ago on the Stinking Water.”