“Whist, now, or ye’ll git me into throuble. Sure, I’m yer sintry, no less, an’ yer chum Pat Flinders.”
“Indeed, Paddy! I’m surprised that they should select you to be my jailer.”
“Humph! well, they didn’t let me have the place for nothing—och! musha!”
The last exclamations were caused by the poor man tumbling over a chair and hitting his head on a table.
“Not hurt, I hope,” said Brixton, his spirit somewhat softened by the incident.
“Not much—only a new bump—but it’s wan among many, so it don’t matter. Now, listen. Time is precious. I’ve come for to set you free—not exactly at this momint, howiver, for the boys o’ the camp haven’t all gone to bed yet; but whin they’re quiet, I’ll come again an’ help you to escape. I’ve only come now to let you know.”
The Irishman then proceeded to give Tom Brixton a minute account of all that had been done in his behalf. He could not see how the news affected him, the prison being as dark as Erebus, but great was his surprise and consternation when the condemned man said, in a calm but firm voice, “Thank you, Flinders, for your kind intentions, but I don’t mean to make a second attempt to escape.”
“Ye don’t intind to escape!” exclaimed his friend, with a look of blank amazement at the spot where the voice of the other came from.
“No; I don’t deserve to live, Paddy, so I shall remain and be hanged.”
“I’ll be hanged if ye do,” said Paddy, with much decision. “Come, now, don’t be talkin’ nonsense. It’s jokin’ ye are, av coorse.”