“Now, then, listen, all of ye,” he said, panting vehemently, “an’ take in what I say, for the time’s short. The camp’ll be attacked in five minits—more or less. I chanced to overhear the blackguards. Their chief comes here to set Muster Brixton free. Then—och! here he comes! Do as I bid ye, ivery wan, an’ howld yer tongues.”
The latter words were said energetically, but in a low whisper, for footsteps were heard outside as if approaching stealthily. Presently a rubbing sound was heard, as of a hand feeling for the door. It touched the handle and then paused a moment, after which there came a soft tap.
“I’ll spake for ye,” whispered Flinders in Brixton’s ear.
Another pause, and then another tap at the door.
“Arrah! who goes there?” cried Paddy, stretching himself, as if just awakened out of a sound slumber and giving vent to a mighty yawn.
“A friend,” answered the robber-chief through the keyhole.
“A frind!” echoed Pat. “Sure an’ that’s a big lie, if iver there was one. Aren’t ye goin’ to hang me i’ the mornin’?”
“No indeed, I ain’t one o’ this camp. But surely you can’t be the man—the—the thief—named Brixton, for you’re an Irishman.”
“An’ why not?” demanded Flinders. “Sure the Brixtons are Irish to the backbone—an’ thieves too—root an’ branch from Adam an’ Eve downwards. But go away wid ye. I don’t belave that ye’re a frind. You’ve only just come to tormint me an’ spile my slape the night before my funeral. Fie for shame! Go away an’ lave me in pace.”
“You’re wrong, Brixton; I’ve come to punish the blackguards that would hang you, an’ set you free, as I’ll soon show you. Is the door strong?”