Martin lifted his glass as though to admire its colour in the lamp-light. “Go then, my friend,” he said smoothly. “Oh, go by all means! Only blame yourself, not me, for aught that may happen in the course of a day or so. You’d make a pretty figure in the cart, Roger, and ’twould need a double rope to hold your body.”
“Damn you!” roared Roger, swinging up his hand, but Martin’s eyes, watching him intently, and the smile flickering still upon his lips, the big man swung round once more and pointed to me. “You’re makin’ a sweet song o’ hangin’, Martin,” he muttered. “You’re sayin’ what your precious gentleman may do or mayn’t, as the case may be. Peach on me, you mean—if so be I don’t wait for him, and if so be I don’t do as I’m told. Only, don’t you be forgettin’, that ’twas him as told us to hold up old Skinflint’s coach, and nab the lad there. And that’s robbery by the King’s highway,—and get that into your head, and keep it there. And, by God, Martin, if he’s got his claws on me, I’ve got my claws on to him from this night forth; and if he talks of hangin’, there’s others—ay, there’s others. You, Martin, and old Mag here, and him.”
“Pish, man,” said Martin, coolly, though his look was livid. “Who’d listen to you? Who’d believe you? Old Gavin Masters—eh? He loves you, Roger. He has confidence in you.”
Roger stood cursing to himself, demanding finally, “And the lad here,—what’s he goin’ to do with the lad?”
“How in the devil’s name does it concern you, Galt?” cried Martin, with sudden flaming anger. “You’ve done your share of the work and you’ll be paid for it.”
“Ay, but you answer me! What’s to be done with the lad? Hark ’ee, Martin, I’m sick to death of the whole crew of ye. And of none more than yourself, unless it’s himself. I’ve done my work on the roads, and there’s a few the poorer for it; but I’ve never done aught of a kind with this. Kidnappin’ an’ maybe murder at the finish.”
“What d’ye mean?” Martin asked, drawing back his chair, to be out of reach of Roger Galt’s rising rage, as the drink worked within him.
“What’s he goin’ to do with the lad there?” Roger growled. “Get him out of the way—oh, ay, I know that, and can guess for why. From the looks of him! But how’s he goin’ to rid himself of him? Ship him overseas with Blunt, or what? Martin, I’ll have no hand in aught that don’t give the lad a chance for his life,—d’ye hear me? Who’s he? Dick Craike’s lad as ever was! And they did for Dick Craike—ay, they did, they did, years agone.”
Martin, starting up, screeched out, “Shut your fool’s mouth! You’re drunk, Roger Galt. The lad’s to be kept here, till he comes. He’ll be here to-night. Tell him what you’ve said to me! Tell him! Get the lantern and give me the keys, Mother Mag. We’ll lock the lad away upstairs; when the master comes he’ll not be wanting him taking his ease here like a gentleman!”