Fred Westly shook his head with an air of profound perplexity, but said nothing.
“I’ve a good mind,” continued Tom, “to return to Pine Tree Diggings, give myself up, and get hanged right off. It would be a good riddance to the world at large, and would relieve me of a vast deal of trouble.”
“There is a touch of selfishness in that speech, Tom—don’t you think?—for it would not relieve me of trouble; to say nothing of your poor mother!”
“You’re right, Fred. D’you know, it strikes me that I’m a far more selfish and despicable brute than I used to think myself.”
He looked at his companion with a sad sort of smile; nevertheless, there was a certain indefinable ring of sincerity in his tone.
“Tom,” said the other, earnestly, “will you wait for me here for a few minutes while I turn aside to pray?”
“Certainly, old boy,” answered Tom, seating himself on a mossy bank. “You know I cannot join you.”
“I know you can’t, Tom. It would be mockery to pray to One in whom you don’t believe; but as I believe in God, the Bible, and prayer, you’ll excuse my detaining you, just for—”
“Say no more, Fred. Go; I shall wait here for you.”
A slight shiver ran through Brixton’s frame as he sat down, rested his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands.