It was on the morning of his execution that Bumpus sat on the edge of his hard pallet, gazed at his manacled wrists, and gave vent to the sentiments set down at the beginning of this chapter.
Toozle sat down at his feet, looking up in his face sympathetically.
"No, I don't believe it's possible," said Bumpus, for at least the hundredth time that morning. "It's a joke; that's wot it is. Ain't it, Toozle, my boy?"
Toozle whined, wagged his tail, and said, as plainly as if he had spoken:
"Yes, of course it is,—an uncommonly bad joke, no doubt; but a joke, undoubtedly; so keep up your heart, my man."
"Ah! you're a funny dog," continued Bumpus; "but you don't know what it is to be hanged, my boy. Hanged! why it's agin all laws o' justice, moral an' otherwise, it is. But I'm dreamin'; yes, it's dreamin' I am; but I don't think I ever did dream that I thought I was dreamin' an' yet wasn't quite sure. Really, it's perplexin', to say the least on it. Ain't it, Toozle?"
Toozle wagged his tail.
"Ah, here comes my imaginary jailer to let me out o' this here abominably real-lookin' imaginary lockup. Hang Jo Bumpus!—why, it's—"
Before Jo could find words sufficiently strong to express his opinion of such a murderous intention, the door opened, and a surly-looking man—a European settler—entered with his breakfast. This meal consisted of a baked breadfruit and a can of water.
"Ha! you've come to let me out, have you?" cried Jo, in a tone of forced pleasantry, which was anything but cheerful.