“I’m very far from joking, my friend,” returned Tom, in a tone of deep despondency, “as you shall find when daylight returns. I am guilty—more guilty than you fancy—so I shall plead guilty, whether tried or not, and take the consequences. Besides, life is not worth having. I’m tired of it!”
“Och! but we’ve bought you, an’ paid for you, an’ you’ve no manner o’ right to do what ye like wi’ yourself,” returned his exasperated chum. “But it’s of no use talkin’ to ye. There’s somethin’ wrong wi’ your inside, no doubt. When I come back for ye at the right time you’ll have thought better of it. Come, now, give us your hand.”
“I wish I could, Flinders, but the rascal that tied me has drawn the cord so tight that I feel as if I had no hands at all.”
“I’ll soon putt that right. Where are ye? Ah, that’s it, now, kape stidy.”
Flinders severed the cord with his bowie knife, unwound it, and set his friend free.
“Now thin, remain where ye are till I come for ye; an’ if any wan should rap at the door an’ ax where’s the sintinel an’ the kay, just tell him ye don’t know, an don’t care; or, if ye prefer it, tell him to go an’ ax his grandmother.”
With this parting piece of advice Flinders left the prisoner, locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went straight to Fred Westly, whom he found seated beside the fire with his face buried in his hands.
“If Tom told you he wouldn’t attempt to escape,” said Westly, on hearing the details of all that his eccentric friend had done, “you may be sure that he’ll stick to it.”
“D’ye raaly think so, Muster Fred?” said his companion in deep anxiety.
“I do. I know Tom Brixton well, and when he is in this mood nothing will move him. But, come, I must go to the prison and talk with him.”