“I can’t conscientiously tell him that, Jimmy,” said Yates soothingly. “How am I to know you are not a Fenian?”
“Bosh!” cried Hawkins angrily. “Conscientiously? A lot you think of conscience when there is an item to be had.”
“We none of us live up to our better nature, Jimmy,” continued Yates feelingly. “We can but do our best, which is not much. For reasons that you might fail to understand, I do not wish to run the risk of telling a lie. You appreciate my hesitation, don’t you, Mr. Macdonald? You would not advise me to assert a thing I was not sure of, would you?”
“Certainly not,” said the blacksmith earnestly.
“You want to keep me here because you are afraid of me,” cried the indignant Blade man. “You know very well I’m not a Fenian.”
“Excuse me, Jimmy, but I know nothing of the kind. I even suspect myself of Fenian leanings. How, then, can I be sure of you?”
“What’s your game?” asked Hawkins more calmly, for he realized that he himself would not be slow to take advantage of a rival’s dilemma.
“My game is to get a neat little account of this historical episode sent over the wires to the Argus. You see, Jimmy, this is my busy day. When the task is over, I will devote myself to your service, and will save you from being hanged, if I can; although I shall do so without prejudice, as the lawyers say, for I have always held that that will be the ultimate end of all the Blade staff.
“Look here, Yates; play fair. Don’t run in any conscientious guff on a prisoner. You see, I have known you these many years.”
“Yes, and little have you profited by a noble example. It is your knowledge of me that makes me wonder at your expecting me to let you out of your hole without due consideration.”